“Without impugning Birmingham’s knowledge of American families,” says Wemyss, thinking of his own, “I think I may submit that there are differences. Take Mrs. Gower, for instance, Mrs. Levison Gower, I mean--I think that is a family name not unknown in England, and blood shows itself in every line of her face, and, in every motion of her figure, breeding.” Wemyss never forgets his polished periods, even in the heat of argument. “Or take,” he goes on, “Miss Holyoke, whom we saw to-day, she is perhaps even a better example of what I mean. She has not perhaps much style; she is countrified, if you like--but she comes of the best old Massachusetts stock, and I submit there is no older blood in the England of to-day than hers.” “Oh, come, now, I say,” says his lordship, “you don’t mean to set up that little filly against us? That’s the sort of thing our governesses are in England.” It is a little hard for Arthur to sit by and hear this; but he remembers that Birmingham is the guest of the evening and keeps silent. But Haviland takes it up. “If that is true, Lord Birmingham, I congratulate you upon your _governess’s_ breeding; and am only sorry that its lessons are so soon forgotten.” “I think, sir; you should remember the lady is a cousin of our host,” adds Lucie Gower, pluckily. “Damn it, man,” cries Birmingham, “we all think so in England. Do you suppose the prince cares a curse for your shop-keeping distinctions? As much as I do for Jess the farrier’s daughter and Nell the draper’s wife in my county town. He only takes up one Yankee woman after another because they’re easier than the women that he’s used to. That’s why your Buffalo Bills get to the Queen’s levees as well as your poker Schencks--we might as well marry a Chicago pork man’s pretty daughter as any Yankee Boston professor’s--if she’s got the money and the looks.” “And damn it, sir,” cries little Lucie Gower, “I tell you that if you had spoken but just now of my wife as you did of poor Miss Holyoke, I’d have shied this bottle at your head.” Gower looks fierce, as he stands up, grasping his decanter; and Charlie Townley interposes to pour oil on troubled waters. “Sit down, Lucie,” says he, “I’ve no doubt all our ancestors were no better than they should be; Lord Birmingham’s own included.” With which American reflection, and something in the ludicrousness of Gower’s gentle nickname, the altercation passes for the time. Birmingham, being a bit of a coward, is brought to apologize; “and perhaps,” adds Charlie, “Lord B. has just been touched upon a tender point.” All laugh at this, save Birmingham, who blushes red and angrily. But John has said nothing, and is twirling his mustache grimly. Meantime the wine circulates again; and the earl, who has already taken too much, takes a little more.