Frothingham took off his hat and bowed vaguely to the maid, who smiled cordially. “I’ll show you your room,” she said. “Never mind, Jessie,” interrupted Barney. “You needn’t bother. I’ll take him up myself. But I know everything’s all right--Nelly looked after that.” Frothingham was impressed by the astonishing difference between the exterior and the interior of the house. He felt at home at once in this interior--handsome, cheerful, the absurd splendours of the architect-builder’s devising softened into comfort and good taste. “We thought you’d like your young man near you,” explained Barney, “so we put a bed in the dressing room.” “Thank you,” replied Frothingham. “This is charming.” “Nelly knows her business.” Barney’s good-natured face, with its many dignifying scars from his wars with destiny, beamed paternal enthusiasm. “You needn’t dress for dinner unless you want to,” he went on. “I never do unless we have company or I go out somewhere to something swell and formal. Wickham sometimes does and sometimes don’t.” “I think I’ll dress, if you don’t mind,” said Frothingham diplomatically. “Suit yourself. This is Liberty Hall. We ain’t got any rules.” He looked at his watch. “That clock on the mantel there is four minutes fast. It’s seven minutes to seven by the right time. We’re having dinner at half-past seven, but you can come down just as soon as you feel like it.” [Illustration: _Found Nelly alone in the front parlour_] Frothingham descended at five minutes before the dinner hour and found Nelly alone in the front parlour. Superficially she was like the women he had met in the Eastern cities. Like them she was dressed in a gown obviously imported from Paris; like them she wore it as only American and French women wear their clothes. He saw instantly that she was a well-bred girl of a most attractive American type. She was tall and long of limb--her arms were almost too long. She had a great deal of dark brown hair shading fascinatingly into black here and there. She had dark eyes--not brown, as he at first glance thought, but dark grey--a humour-loving mouth, a serious brow, a clear, delicate, olive skin. As she and Frothingham were shaking hands, her father and her brother entered--the brother, Wickham, a huge fellow, topping his father by several inches and having his father’s keen, good-natured dark grey eyes and his father’s features, except that the outline was more refined without being less strong. Barney put his arm round his daughter and, with a foolish-fond expression, said: “Didn’t I tell you, Frothingham? Wasn’t I right?”