"Yes--at least, I think so; I heard nothing of Ireton P." "She will be cultivating your uncle, or yourself, George. A handsome, rich young widow, and an old acquaintance of your uncle's, eh?" "I don't feel in the least like it, Mrs. Routh, and I am sure the sparkling, flashing, dashing lady I met last night would fly at no such mean quarry. I have rather a notion, too, that my uncle does not like her." "Have you? Did he seem displeased at the meeting?" "Not exactly displeased--but--but I am beginning to understand him now wonderfully well, and in some things he is so like my mother. Now, with her I can always feel whether she likes a person or not without her saying a word--I could formerly, I mean, when she was more susceptible to impressions than she is now. It's just the same in my uncle's case; and I knew, in a minute, he didn't like Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge." "Where is she staying? At the 'Quatre Saisons,' I suppose?" "No," said George; "she has one of the Schwarzchild houses. You know them, Mrs. Routh?" "Yes, I know them," said Harriet. "I saw the Frau Schwarzchild yesterday, rejoicing in a pink parasol with a coral handle, set with turquoises in clumps." "That's the woman. Shouldn't wonder if the parasol were a waif from the wardrobe of Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge. She has, then, one of those huge houses for herself and her attendants." "Did she tell you all this in the ball-room?" "All _this?_ Bless your innocence, she got through such trivialities as these in about two minutes. I might have heard her whole history, and Ireton P.'s, no doubt, particulars of his last illness--if he had a last illness--included, if I had asked her to dance. And, by Jove!" said George, starting up and pushing back the muslin curtain which impeded Harriet's view of the street somewhat, "there she is, coming down the street in a pony-carriage, and looking like a whole triumphal procession on one set of wheels."