ed, and now and then a leaping flame. It was a scene to wake
the latent sentiment of even a British bosom. I thought I would stay a
little longer.

"So you usually ordered a chop?" I said by way of resuming the
conversation. "I hope the chops were tender."

(I have a vague recollection that my intonation was.)

"There are worse things in the States than the mutton," replied Mr.
Mafferton, moving his chair to enable him, by twisting his neck not too
ostentatiously, to glance occasionally at Dicky and Isabel, "but the
steaks were distinctly better than the chops--distinctly."

"So all connoisseurs say," I replied respectfully. "Would you like to
change seats with me? I don't mind sitting with my back to--Vesuvius."

Mr. Mafferton blushed--unless it was the glow from the volcano.

"Not on my account," he said. "By any means."

"You do not fear a demonstration," I suggested. "And yet the forces of
nature are very uncertain. That is your English nerve. It deserves all
that is said of it."

Mr. Mafferton looked at me suspiciously.

"I fancy you must be joking," he said.

He sometimes complained that the great bar to his observation of the
American character was the American sense of humour. It was one of the
things he had made a note of, as interfering with the intelligent
stranger's enjoyment of the country.

"I suppose," I replied reproachfully, "you never pause to think how
unkind a suspicion like that is? When one _wishes_ to be taken
seriously."

"I fear I do not," Mr. Mafferton confessed. "Perhaps I jump rather
hastily to conclusions sometimes. It's a family trait. We get it through
the Warwick-Howards on my mother's side."

"Then, of course, there can't be any objection to it. But when one knows
a person's opinion of frivolity, always to be thought frivolous by the
person is hard to bear. Awfully."

And if my expression, as I gazed past this Englishman at Vesuvius, was
one of sad resignation, there was nothing in the situation to exhilarate
anybody.

The impassive countenance of Mr. Mafferton was disturbed by a ray of
concern. The moonlight enabled me to see it quite clearly. "Pray, Miss
Wick," he said, "do not think that. Who was it that wrote----"

"A little humour now and then
Is relished by the wisest men."

"I don't know," I said, "but there's something about it that makes me
think it is English in its origin. Do you _really_ endorse it?"

"Certainly I do. And your liveliness, Miss Wic