After all I had overlooked my most telling item. I might have known that the fact of his visit would prove more thrilling than any gossip coming secondhand from me. They wished to speak with him again, this man who had come upon us so quietly yet so dramatically. We had all become sufficiently American to desire "a good look at him." And when Americans take a good look at you they go over you with a fine tooth comb. They see everything, from a knot in your bootlace to the gold-filling in your teeth. My friends "sat up" as I made my announcement. I felt that, in editorial parlance, I had made a scoop. "Bully!" said Mac, and Bill, her chin on her hand, looked across at me with approval. After all, again, my lack of enterprise in interrogating Mr. Carville the night before was bearing fruit. It was crediting me with a sportsmanlike reluctance to steal a march on my friends. I had, unconsciously done what we English call "the right thing." I had invited him to tea. Suddenly Bill's eyes became anxious. "Are they both coming?" she asked. "I--I don't think so," I faltered. "I can't say exactly why, but I don't think so. You see," I went on, "the reason he offered to tell me about himself was a question of mine about his children. I said their names were curious enough to strike anyone. He said it was a long story. And he offered to step over himself. Now," I felt more certain of myself now, "the story of his children's names may take two directions. If _he_ named them he will not want his wife to hear him tell about it. If _she_ named them, which is not likely, why, he would scarcely take the trouble to come over and tell strangers about it, would he?" "I'm very glad to hear it," said Bill. "So am I," I agreed. "I think it is best to get acquainted with families on the instalment plan, don't you?" "Rather!" said Bill, and held out her hand for my cup.