thes--especially their clothes--as belonging to the
fastidious cosmopolitan class, between whom and the young
school-teachers from the West, in their white cotton blouses, leathern
belts, and neat short skirts, the links were few. Miss Floyd, indeed,
was dressed with great simplicity. A white muslin dress, _a la_ Romney,
with a rose at the waist, and a black-and-white Romney hat deeply
shading the face beneath--nothing could have been plainer; yet it was a
simplicity not to be had for the asking, a calculated, a Parisian
simplicity; while her companion, Mrs. Verrier, was attired in what the
fashion-papers would have called a "creation in mauve." And Roger knew
quite enough about women's dress to be aware that it was a creation that
meant dollars. She was a tall, dark-eyed, olive-skinned woman, thin
almost to emaciation: and young Barnes noticed that, while Miss Floyd
talked much, Mrs. Verrier answered little, and smiled less. She moved
with a languid step, and looked absently about her. Roger could not make
up his mind whether she was American or English.

In the house itself the crowd was almost unmanageable. The General's ire
was roused afresh when he was warned off the front door by the polite
official on guard, and made to mount a back stair in the midst of a
panting multitude.

"I really cannot congratulate you on your management of these affairs,"
he said severely to Captain Boyson, as they stood at last, breathless
and hustled, on the first-floor landing. "It is most improper, I may say
dangerous, to admit such a number at once. And, as for seeing the house,
it is simply impossible. I shall make my way down as soon as possible,
and go for a walk."

Captain Boyson looked perplexed. General Hobson was a person of
eminence; Washington had been very civil to him; and the American
officer felt a kind of host's responsibility.

"Wait a moment; I'll try and find somebody." He disappeared, and the
party maintained itself with difficulty in a corner of the landing
against the pressure of a stream of damsels, who crowded to the open
doors of the rooms, looked through the gratings which bar the entrance
without obstructing the view, chattered, and moved on. General Hobson
stood against the wall, a model of angry patience. Cecilia Boyson,
glancing at him with a laughing eye, said in Roger's ear: "How sad it is
that your uncle dislikes us so!"

"Us? What do you mean?"

"That he hates America so. Oh, don't say he doesn'