Mr. Shanner looked puzzled. "How do you mean--America has crossed to you, Mr. Wyndham?" he asked. "Oh, I hope I did not seem to suggest that I have been a centre of pilgrimage," laughed Wyndham. "Only, in past years, when I was running a good deal about the Continent, I often used to live with New York, Chicago, and Boston, for considerable periods." "Mr. Wyndham has often given us charming sketches of the Americans," chimed in Miss Robinson. "Oh, I don't pretend to be much of a hand at that sort of thing," said Mr. Shanner, with pleasant humility. "I can only just give my impressions as a plain observer. But then I'm a man of affairs, and nothing at all of an artist or a literary man." Wyndham observed how careful and honeyed his delivery was; it seemed to advertise a perpetual self-consciousness of being a gentleman. "Mr. Shanner is unduly modest," put in Mr. Robinson. "His descriptions are most entertaining." "Well, of course, I can speak of things within my experience, and make myself fairly clear--in my own way, of course. But, from all that you people have been telling me, I shouldn't attempt to emulate Mr. Wyndham." Mr. Shanner gave a strange little laugh, full of insincere echoes; which failed in its implication of good-fellowship, and only emphasised the ill-nature it was meant to cover. Wyndham was not a little bewildered; conscious of some suppressed excitement in the man, some ruffling of the ashen chiaroscuro. This impression was deepened when dinner was announced, and Mr. Shanner made what was perilously like a dart to the side of Miss Robinson and offered his arm. Wyndham stepped out of their way, bowing as they passed him.