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Also she noted all the little things he did with
fork and spoon and glass. She gave him an unusual sense of being
brightly, accurately and completely visible.
Chexington, it seemed to Billy, was done with a large and costly and
easy completeness. The table with its silver and flowers was much
more beautifully done than any table he had sat at before, and in
the dimness beyond the brightness there were two men to wait on the
four of them. The old grey butler was really wonderfully good. . . .
"You shoot, Mr. Prothero?"
"You hunt, Mr. Prothero?"
"You know Scotland well, Mr. Prothero?"
These questions disturbed Prothero. He did not shoot, he did not
hunt, he did not go to Scotland for the grouse, he did not belong,
and Lady Marayne ought to have seen that he did not belong to the
class that does these things.
"You ride much, Mr. Prothero?"
Billy conceived a suspicion that these innocent inquiries were
designed to emphasize a contrast in his social quality. But he
could not be sure. One never could be sure with Lady Marayne.


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