st, and that naive
worldliness of air so captivating in many of his countrymen.

Except that he wore a buttonhole of Parma violets, he was dressed in
every particular exactly like Harry. But no one would have believed
it--he looked so much better dressed.

"That's your chaff, Harry. I'm not a Gibson man, and I don't pretend to
be."

He looked at his hands, which were small and white, the finger-tips
brilliantly polished, and said meditatively--

"I'm very much looking forward to meeting your cousin, Harry. I expect
she's the ideal of a young English lady. Dark, did you say?"

"Rather dark, and very pretty."

"It's a curious thing, Harry, that to me a broonette has always more
fascination than a blonde. It seems--I may be wrong--as though there's
more piquancy, more character."

"I quite agree with you," said Harry. "Now the sister--the married
one--is very fair."

"And she's quite what you call a professional beauty, isn't she?" asked
Van Buren with great relish.

"My dear fellow, I don't call anyone a professional beauty, and you
mustn't either. There's no such thing. I can't think how in America you
get hold of these prehistoric phrases! The expression must have been
dead long before either of us was born!... Still, she is a beauty all
the same."

"Is that so? Mind you, Harry, there's something very attractive about a
blonde, too. To me golden hair and blue eyes suggest gentleness and
womanliness.... What is Mrs. Wyburn like?"

"Well, she's rather like an angel on a Christmas card, with her hair
down--I mean she was, as a little girl," said Harry quickly. "Now she's
considered like 'Love among the Roses' by Burne-Jones."

"Do you really mean that, Harry? Why, she must be more beautiful than
Miss de Freyne!"

"I wouldn't worry about her, if I were you," Harry said.

"Why not, Harry?"

"Well, you see she's got a husband," said Harry, looking at the ceiling
as he puffed his cigarette.

"And a cousin," replied Van Buren with unexpected quickness. He then
burst out laughing.

"What do you mean?" asked Harry, not laughing.

"Harry, I do beg of you to forgive my indiscretion. I'm afraid you'll
think it shows great want of delicacy on my part. It was only meant for
English chaff. Don't be angry, Harry." Van Buren was quite distressed.

"That's all right, old chap."

"You see, I know you painted her portrait, and if you _had_ felt a
little sentiment for her, who could blame you? Of course, I'm well a