There was now a lively movement in the mingling groups, which carried the talk along with it. Every one spoke to every one else by turns, and Gwendolen, who chose to see what was going on around her now, observed that Grandcourt was having Klesmer presented to him by some one unknown to her—a middle-aged man, with dark, full face and fat hands, who seemed to be on the easiest terms with both, and presently led the way in joining the Arrowpoints, whose acquaintance had already been made by both him and Grandcourt. Who this stranger was she did not care much to know; but she wished to observe what was Grandcourt’s manner toward others than herself. Precisely the same: except that he did not look much at Miss Arrowpoint, but rather at Klesmer, who was speaking with animation—now stretching out his long fingers horizontally, now pointing downward with his forefinger, now folding his arms and tossing his mane, while he addressed himself first to one and then to the other, including Grandcourt, who listened with an impassive face and narrow eyes, his left forefinger in his waistcoat-pocket, and his right slightly touching his thin whisker. “I wonder which style Miss Arrowpoint admires most,” was a thought that glanced through Gwendolen’s mind, while her eyes and lips gathered rather a mocking expression. But she would not indulge her sense of amusement by watching, as if she were curious, and she gave all her animation to those immediately around her, determined not to care whether Mr. Grandcourt came near her again or not. He did come, however, and at a moment when he could propose to conduct Mrs. Davilow to her carriage, “Shall we meet again in the ball-room?” she said as he raised his hat at parting. The “yes” in reply had the usual slight drawl and perfect gravity. “You were wrong for once, Gwendolen,” said Mrs. Davilow, during their few minutes’ drive to the castle. “In what, mamma?” “About Mr. Grandcourt’s appearance and manners. You can’t find anything ridiculous in him.” “I suppose I could if I tried, but I don’t want to do it,” said Gwendolen, rather pettishly; and her mother was afraid to say more. It was the rule on these occasions for the ladies and gentlemen to dine apart, so that the dinner might make a time of comparative ease and rest for both. Indeed, the gentlemen had a set of archery stories about the epicurism of the ladies, who had somehow been reported to show a revolting masculine judgment in venison, even asking for the fat—a proof of the frightful rate at which corruption might go on in women, but for severe social restraint, and every year the amiable Lord Brackenshaw, who was something of a _gourmet_, mentioned Byron’s opinion that a woman should never be seen eating,—introducing it with a confidential—“The fact is” as if he were for the first time admitting his concurrence in that sentiment of the refined poet.