"When I left you I had some dinner at the Nord," said Mr Bevan, tipping the ash off his cigar. "The worst dinner I've ever had, I think. Upon my word, I think it was the worst dinner I ever had. When I got to Dover I was so tired I turned into the hotel, and came on next morning. What sort of crossing did you have?" "Oh, very fine," said Pamela, stifling a yawn, and glancing sideways at a group of her guests dimly seen in a corner of the garden, but happy, to judge from the laughter that came from them. "Are the Napiers back in England yet?" "No, they are still in Paris." "What on earth do they want staying there for so long? it must be empty now." "Yes, it was emptying fast when we left, wasn't a soul left scarcely. Do you know, I have a great mind to run over to Ostend for a few weeks. The Napiers are going there; it's rather fun, I believe." "I wouldn't. What's the good of going to these foreign places? stay here." Pamela was silent, and the inspiriting dialogue ceased. A great beetle moving through the night across the garden filled the air with its boom. The group in the corner of the garden still were laughing and talking; amidst their voices could be distinguished that of Hamilton-Cox. Mr Cox had not a pleasant voice; it was too highly pitched, and it jarred on the ear of Mr Bevan and on his soul. His soul was in an irritable mood. When we speak of the soul we refer to an unknown quantity, and when we speak of its condition we refer sometimes, perhaps, to just a touch of liver, or sometimes to an extra glass of champagne. "I can't make out what induces you to surround yourself with those sort of people," said Mr Bevan, casting his cigar-end away and searching for his cigarette case. "What sort of people?" "Oh, that writer man." "Hamilton-Cox?" "Yes--is that his name?" "I am not surrounding myself with Mr Cox; the thing is physically and physiologically impossible. Do talk sense, Charles." Charles retired into silence, and Miss Pursehouse yawned again, sub-audibly. After a few moments--"Where did you pick up the Lamberts?" "You mean Mr Lambert and his daughter?" "Has he a daughter?" "Has he a daughter? Why, Lulu Morgan, when I asked her what you and she had found to talk about, said Fanny Lambert----" "It is perfectly immaterial what Miss Morgan said; some of her sayings are scarcely commendable. I believe she did say something about a Miss Lambert. When I said 'has he a daughter?' I spoke with a meaning." "I am glad to hear that." "What I meant was, that it would have been much better for him to have brought his daughter down here with him." "Do you mean to insinuate that she is--unable to take care of herself in town?" "I mean to insinuate nothing, but according to my old-fashioned ideas----" "Go on, this is interesting," said Miss Pursehouse, who guessed what was coming. "According to my old-fashioned ideas it is scarcely the thing for a man, a married man, to pay a visit----"