Dr. Dakin, roused at last from his dreaming, also sat upright, glancing from one to the other, throwing in now and again a question or a comment which was often seized upon appreciatively to form fresh material for conversation. Mrs. Dakin sat and wondered, mystified, scarcely comprehending. The topics over which the talk ranged, abstract subjects for the most part, illustrated by frequent references to books;--novels, French novels mostly, of which she sometimes just knew the titles, philosophy of which she had never heard--belonged to a class of ideas which as yet had never appeared upon her mental horizon. She was interested, as well as overwhelmed, by a new view of her hostess. Miss Page, this brilliant conversationalist, this subtle reasoner, to whose words the Frenchman, himself so fluent, such an acute critic and thinker, accorded a deference so obviously spontaneous and sincere! Miss Page, who would spend hours in discussing the organization of a mothers’ meeting, of a local flower show, of a Church bazaar. Miss Page, to whom one applied for recipes for _pot pourri_, for dainty invalid dishes, for remedies against chills. Miss Page, who suggested the fashion for one’s new summer muslin, and cut out night-shirts for the children in the Cottage Hospital! “How we must bore her!” was Mrs. Dakin’s involuntary mental exclamation. “And how well, how delightfully she disguises it,” was her next reflection. She remembered other dinners at Fairholme Court--dinners at which the guests had discussed the new curate, the latest book of Miss Marie Corelli, the village cricket match, the fund for the new organ. She remembered Miss Page’s gracious charm of manner on these occasions, her apparent interest in each of these trivial topics. Even now, surprised, uncomprehending as she was with regard to most of the conversation, she did not fail to remark the tact which with a word, with a question easy to answer, she kept three of her guests, at least, ostensibly within the pale of the conversation. “It’s quite fair. We are evenly matched, to-night. Our stupidity has always outweighed her intelligence before, so she never had a chance,” thought Mrs. Dakin. The bitterness of the reflection was caused by the conviction that it was ignorance, not lack of ability, which kept her, at least, out of discussions which interested her. Mrs. Dakin was one of those women whom mental laziness, not lack of brain quality, goes far to ruin. Her mind, naturally active and restless, was unemployed. She had never trained herself to think. To-night, with sudden self-recognition, she regretted both circumstances. Harry, she noticed it with a curious sensation, half jealousy, half pride, was not out of the talk. He was no conversationalist, but he understood, he appreciated, he contributed. That his point of view was valuable, she knew by the brightening of Miss Page’s eyes when he spoke; by an occasional vivacious affirmative nod from Monsieur Fontenelle.