y casual. I suppose
Phelps was in the same difficulty. In fact he looked distraught, now and
then--just as a person looks who wants to uncover an ancestor purely by
accident, and cannot think of a way that will seem accidental enough.
But at last, after dinner, he made a try. He took us about his
drawing-room, showing us the pictures, and finally stopped before a rude
and ancient engraving. It was a picture of the court that tried Charles
I. There was a pyramid of judges in Puritan slouch hats, and below them
three bare-headed secretaries seated at a table. Mr. Phelps put his
finger upon one of the three, and said with exulting indifference--

"An ancestor of mine."

I put my finger on a judge, and retorted with scathing languidness--

"Ancestor of mine. But it is a small matter. I have others."

It was not noble in me to do it. I have always regretted it since. But
it landed him. I wonder how he felt? However, it made no difference in
our friendship, which shows that he was fine and high, notwithstanding
the humbleness of his origin. And it was also creditable in me, too,
that I could overlook it. I made no change in my bearing toward him, but
always treated him as an equal.

But it was a hard night for me in one way. Mr. Phelps thought I was the
guest of honor, and so did Count S.; but I didn't, for there was nothing
in my invitation to indicate it. It was just a friendly offhand note, on
a card. By the time dinner was announced Phelps was himself in a state
of doubt. Something had to be done; and it was not a handy time for
explanations. He tried to get me to go out with him, but I held back;
then he tried S., and he also declined. There was another guest, but
there was no trouble about him. We finally went out in a pile. There was
a decorous plunge for seats, and I got the one at Mr. Phelps's left, the
Count captured the one facing Phelps, and the other guest had to take
the place of honor, since he could not help himself. We returned to the
drawing-room in the original disorder. I had new shoes on, and they were
tight. At eleven I was privately crying; I couldn't help it, the pain
was so cruel. Conversation had been dead for an hour. S. had been due at
the bedside of a dying official ever since half past nine. At last we
all rose by one blessed impulse and went down to the street door without
explanations--in a pile, and no precedence; and so, parted.

The evening had its defects; still, I got my ancestor in,