laudine Jeffrys, looking quite ethereal, but very
lovely."

"I know. Her lover was killed in Cuba, and she has been the type of
faithful grief ever since. She looks it and dresses it to perfection."

"And feels it?"

"Perhaps she does. I am not skilled in the feelings of pensive,
heart-broken maidens. But her case is a very common one. Lovers are
nowhere against husbands, yet how many thousands of good women lose
their husbands every year? If they are poor, they have to hide their
grief and work for them-selves and their families; if they are rich,
very few people believe that they are really sorry to be widows. Are
any poor creatures more jeered at than widows? No man believes they
are grieving for the loss of their husbands. Then why should they all
sympathize with Claudine about the loss of a lover?"

"Perhaps lovers are nicer than husbands."

"Pretty much all alike. I have known a few good husbands. Your
grandfather was one, your father another. But you have said nothing
about Fred. Did he look handsome? Did he make a sensation? Was he a
cousin to be proud of?"

"Indeed, Granny, Fred was the whole party. He is not naturally handsome,
but he has distinction, and he was well-dressed. And I never heard
anyone talk as he did. He told the most delightful stories, he was full
of mimicry and wit, and said things that brought everyone into the
merry talk; and I am sure he charmed and astonished the whole party.
Mr. Denning asked me quietly afterwards 'what university he was educated
at.' I think he took it all as education, and had some wild ideas of
finishing Bryce in a similar manner."

Madam was radiant. "I told you so," she said proudly. "The Mostyns have
intellect as well as land. There are no stupid Mostyns. I hope you asked
him to play. I think his way of handling a piano would have taught them
a few things Russians and Poles know nothing about. Poor things! How can
they have any feelings left?"

"There was no piano in the room, Granny, and the company separated very
soon after dinner."

"Somehow you ought to have managed it, Ethel." Then with a touch of
anxiety, "I hope all this cleverness was natural--I mean, I hope it
wasn't champagne. You know, Ethel, we think as we drink, and Fred isn't
used to those frisky wines. Mostyn cellars are full of old sherry and
claret, and Fred's father was always against frothing, sparkling wines."

"Granny, it was all Fred. Wine had nothing to do with it, but a certain