"Oh, you'll find them all over the house. These are not Gwynnes. This house came to Lord Strathland through the female line. It will be Jack's eventually--one way or another; and Jack must be more like the Eltons than the Gwynnes--unless, indeed, he is like his American ancestors." She turned her soft non-committal eyes on the stranger. "You are his thirty-first cousin, are you not?" "Not quite so remote. But why do you call him Jack? He is known to fame as Elton Gwynne." "His name is John Elton Cecil Gwynne. We are given to the nickname these days--to the abbreviation in general." They were walking down a corridor, and Miss Thangue was peering through her lorgnette at the cards on the doors. "I know you are on this side. I wrote your name myself. But exactly where--ah, here it is." She opened the door of a square room with large roses on the white wall-paper, and fine old mahogany furniture. The sofa and chairs and windows were covered with a chintz in harmony with the walls. "It is cheerful, don't you think so?" asked Miss Thangue, drawing one of the straight curtains aside. "Vicky had all the rooms done over, and I chose the designs. She is quite intolerantly modern, and holds that when wall-paper and chintz can save an old house from looking like a sarcophagus, why not have them? That bell-cord connects with your maid's room--" "I have no maid. I am not well off at all. I wonder Lady Victoria thought it worth while to ask me down." "Dear me, how odd! May I sit with you a little while? I never before saw a poor American girl." "I'll be only too grateful if you will stay with me as long as you can. I am not exactly poor. I have a ranch near Rosewater, some property and an old house in San Francisco. All that makes me comfortable, but no more; and there are so many terribly rich American girls!" "There are, indeed!" Miss Thangue sat forward with the frank curiosity of the Englishwoman when inspecting a foreign specimen. But her curiosity was kindly, for she was still a girl at heart, interested in other girls. Miss Otis, looking at her blond, virginal face, took for granted that she was under thirty, and owed her weight to a fondness for sweets and sauces. "How can you travel in Europe if you are not rich?" demanded Flora. "I never dare venture over except as the guest of some more fortunate friend." "Are _you_ poor?" asked Miss Otis, her eye arrested by the smart little afternoon frock of lace and chiffon and crepe-de-chine. "Oh, horribly. But then we all are, over here. If it were not for the Jews and the Americans we'd have to make our own clothes. The dressmakers never could afford to give us credit." "They all looked very wealthy down-stairs."