t, because I've
watched him, at one, two, three parties. He thinks we're a horrid,
noisy, vulgar people, with most unpleasant voices, and he thanks God for
the Atlantic--and hopes he may never see us again."

"Well, of course, if you're so certain about it, there's no good in
contradicting you. Did you say that lady's name was Floyd? Could I have
seen her last week in New York?"

"Quite possible. Perhaps you heard something about her?"

"No," said Barnes, after thinking a moment. "I remember--somebody
pointed her out at the opera."

His companion looked at him with a kind of hard amusement. Cecilia
Boyson was only five-and-twenty, but there was already something in her
that foretold the formidable old maid.

"Well, when people begin upon Daphne Floyd," she said, "they generally
go through with it. Ah! here comes Alfred."

Captain Boyson, pushing his way through the throng, announced to his
sister and General Hobson that he had found the curator in charge of the
house, who sent a message by him to the effect that if only the party
would wait till four o'clock, the official closing hour, he himself
would have great pleasure in showing them the house when all the
tourists of the day had taken their departure.

"Then," said Miss Floyd, smiling at the General, "let us go and sit in
the garden, and feel ourselves aristocratic and superior."

The General's brow smoothed. Voice and smile were alike engaging. Their
owner was not exactly pretty, but she had very large dark eyes, and a
small glowing face, set in a profusion of hair. Her neck, the General
thought, was the slenderest he had ever seen, and the slight round lines
of her form spoke of youth in its first delicate maturity. He followed
her obediently, and they were all soon in the garden again, and free of
the crowd. Miss Floyd led the way across the grass with the General.

"Ah! now you will see the General will begin to like us," said Miss
Boyson. "Daphne has got him in hand."

Her tone was slightly mocking. Barnes observed the two figures in front
of them, and remarked that Miss Floyd had a "very--well--a very foreign
look."

"Not English, you mean?--or American? Well, naturally. Her mother was a
Spaniard--a South American--from Buenos Ayres. That's why she is so
dark, and so graceful."

"I never saw a prettier dress," said Barnes, following the slight figure
with his eyes. "It's so simple."

His companion laughed again. The manner of the laugh puzzled