In the drawing-room, groups form as usual. Lightwood, Boots, and Brewer, flutter like moths around that yellow wax candle⁠—guttering down, and with some hint of a winding-sheet in it⁠—Lady Tippins. Outsiders cultivate Veneering, M.P. , and Mrs. Veneering, W.M.P. Lammle stands with folded arms, Mephistophelean in a corner, with Georgiana and Fledgeby. Mrs. Lammle, on a sofa by a table, invites Mr. Twemlow’s attention to a book of portraits in her hand.

Mr. Twemlow takes his station on a settee before her, and Mrs. Lammle shows him a portrait.

“You have reason to be surprised,” she says softly, “but I wish you wouldn’t look so.”