are accused of being too fascinating. "Miss Windsor
and I were great friends, nothing more."

"Why, my dear boy, of course you were nothing more. To be great friends
is enough; so you own up to the serious affair? You think that she isn't
watching you--look."

Geoffrey glanced up and caught Miss Windsor's eye. She colored, turned
away, and said something to the _Saturday Reviewer,_ who had before
found his satirical remarks thrown away on his _distraite_ hostess.

"See that fine color mounting to her cheeks," said Mrs. Carey.

"She sees that we are talking about her and feels a little
self-consciousness. The Americans are not so self-possessed as we are."

"Why do you not marry her?" she continued, not heeding him. "She has
money, is not at all bad-looking. There is nothing else for you to do,
and you cannot long go on as you are now, I fancy."

Geoffrey grew red and confused. He tried to make a clever answer. She
had such an air of graceful badinage, as she asked the question, that it
did not seem to him that he had a right to be angry, and yet he did
feel so. It annoyed him very much to be chaffed about Miss Windsor; to
have this cold woman of the world suggest to him that he should marry
the young American girl for her money.

Mrs. Carey laughed slightly, and seeing that she had pressed her
advantage too far, turned to a congenial diversion with Sydney, who had
by this time dined well and thoughtfully. She clinked his glass of
Burgundy lightly with him in a quaint, old-fashioned way, and Sydney's
eyes sparkled; he drained his glass.

Sir John Dacre had seen Geoffrey when the party sat down at the table;
but it so chanced that he did not catch his eye until just now. The two
men had not met for years, and even now the conventions of society and
six feet of mahogany kept them separated more effectually than miles of
country. They smiled and nodded, however, and Dacre raised his glass of
wine, and the two pledged each other's health in some old comet claret
of 1912.

"Who is the man who just smiled at you, Mr. Dacre?" asked Miss Lincoln.

"My dear old friend, Lord Brompton--Geoffrey Ripon you would call him,
perhaps. I am downright glad to see him here to-night. Indeed, I came
down to this part of the country to see him."

Miss Lincoln seemed chagrined.

"You must be very much attached to him, then, Mr. Dacre."

"Yes, of course I am; and I have not seen him for some years. He has not
changed much."

"I