Mrs. Staunton looked vigorous dissent, but said nothing. They listened for a few minutes to the drowsy crackling of the wood fire, and to the futile beat of the storm against the windows. Then Mrs. Ridgie rose. “I’ll see you at dinner,” she said to Frothingham. “I’ll forgive you for being so cross to me, belle-mère,” she said to Mrs. Staunton, patting her on the cheek. Then her pretty little figure and pretty, pert face vanished. Mrs. Staunton frowned at the place where she had been--she disliked Virgie’s hoydenish movements almost as much as her demonstrativeness; in her opinion, “no thoroughly respectable woman laughs loudly, uses slang, or indulges in public kissing and embracing.” They were ten at dinner that night, and Frothingham, seated between Mrs. Staunton and a middle-aged, stiff, and homely Mrs. Sullivan, fought off depression by drinking the champagne steadily--“vile stuff,” he said to himself, “and bad cooking, and a dull old woman on either side. And what’s this rot they’re talking?” The conversation was of a Buddhist priest who was making converts among “the very best people.” Mrs. Sullivan was contending that he was a fraud, and that his teachings were immoral. Mrs. Staunton was defending him, assisted by a sallow, black-whiskered, long-haired young man on the opposite side of the table--a Mr. Gilson. Frothingham would not even pretend to listen. His look and his thoughts wandered down the table to Cecilia Allerton. Her slender paleness was foiled by two stout red and brown men--Ridgeway Staunton and Frank Mortimer. They were eating steadily, with the slow, lingering movements of the jaw which proclaim the man or the beast that wishes to get food into the mouth rather than into the stomach. Between forkfuls they drank champagne, holding it in the mouth and swallowing deliberately. Cecilia was evidently oblivious of them and of the rest of her surroundings. “She looks sickly,” thought Frothingham, “and an iceberg.” She had a small head, a high, narrow forehead, a long, narrow face--pale, almost gaunt. The expression of her mouth was prim to severity. But her eyes, large and brilliant brown, and full of imagination, contradicted the coldness of the rest of her face, and gave her a look that was certainly distinction, if not beauty. “I wonder what she’s thinking about?” said Frothingham to himself. “Buddhism, I wager. How English she looks. But they all do, for that matter, except this long-haired beast opposite. He looks a Spaniard, or something else Southern and dirty.” “Did you find that the New York women swore much, Lord Frothingham?” He started. It was the Puritanic-looking Mrs. Sullivan. “I beg pardon,” he said, turning his head so that his entrenched eye was trained upon her. “The New York women,” replied Mrs. Sullivan. “Were they very profane?” “Ah--well--that is---- Now, what would you call profane?” asked Frothingham in his driest drawl. “Damn, and devil, and that sort?”