Mrs. Maldon was as susceptible as any one to the drama of the moment, perhaps more than any one.  She thrilled and became happy as Julian in silence minutely examined the pipes.  She had taken expert advice before purchasing, and she was tranquil as to the ability of the pipes to withstand criticism.  They bore the magic triple initials of the first firm of brier-pipe makers in the world—­initials as famous and as welcome on the plains of Hindustan as in the Home Counties or the frozen zone.  She gazed round the table with increasing satisfaction.  Louis, who was awkwardly fixed with regard to the light, the shadow of his bust falling always across his plate, had borne that real annoyance with the most charming good-humour.  He was a delight to the eye; he had excellent qualities, especially social qualities.  Rachel sat opposite to the hostess—­an admirable girl in most ways, a splendid companion, and a sound cook.  The meal had been irreproachable, and in the phrase of the Signal “ample justice had been done” to it.  Julian was on the hostess’s left, with his back to the window and to the draught.  A good boy, a sterling boy, if peculiar!  And there they were all close together, intimate, familiar, mutually respecting; and the perfect parlour was round about them:  a domestic organism, honest, dignified, worthy, more than comfortable.  And she, Elizabeth Maldon, in her old age, was the head of it, and the fount of good things.

“Thank ye!” ejaculated Julian, with a queer look askance at his benefactor.  “Thank ye, aunt!”

It was all he could get out of his throat, and it was all that was expected of him.  He hated to give thanks—­and he hated to be thanked.  The grandeur of the present flattered him.  Nevertheless he regarded it as essentially absurd in its pretentiousness.  The pipes were A1, but could a man carry about a huge contraption like that?  All a man needed was an A1 pipe, which, if he had any sense, he would carry loose in his pocket with his pouch—­and be hanged to morocco cases and silk linings!

“Stoke up, my hearties!” said Louis, drawing forth a gun-metal cigarette-case, which was chained to his person by a kind of cable.

Undoubtedly the case of pipes represented for Julian a triumph over Louis, or, at least, justice against Louis.  For obvious reasons Julian had not quarrelled with a rich and affectionate great-aunt because she had accorded to Louis the privilege of smoking in her parlour what he preferred to smoke, while refusing a similar privilege to himself.  But he had resented the distinction.  And his joy in the spectacular turn of the wheel was vast.  For that very reason he hid it with much care.  Why should he bubble over with gratitude for having been at last treated fairly?  It would be pitiful to do so.  Leaving the case open upon the table, he pulled a pouch and an old pipe from his pocket, and began to fill the pipe.  It was inexcusable, but it was like him—­he had to do it.