“I shall give him--if he will do me the honour of accepting them--only a few letters. The wisest plan is a proper introduction to the very best people. Then all doors will be open to him.” “The Americans are hospitable to everyone, are they not?” “Not to younger sons any more. And not to unaccredited foreigners. They’ve had their fingers jolly well burned. I knew of one case--a girl--quite a ladylike person, though of a new family from the interior. She married a French valet masquerading as a duke.” “Poor creature,” said Evelyn, smiling with amused contempt. “Yes, and another girl married--or thought she married--a German royal prince. And when she got to Germany she found that she’d bought a place as mere morganatic wife, with no standing at all.” “Fancy! What a facer!” “And she never got her money back--not a penny,” continued Sidney. “But, like you, I don’t sympathise with these upstart people who try to thrust themselves out of their proper station. The old families over there--and there are a few gentlefolk, Lady Evelyn, though they’re almost lost in the crowd of noisy upstarts--never have such humiliating experiences in their international marriages.” “Naturally not,” said Evelyn. “But, as I was about to say, a foreigner with a genuine title, the head of a house of gentle people, is received with open arms. Lord Frothingham would be overwhelmed with hospitalities. My friends would see to that.” After a few minutes, without any impoliteness on Evelyn’s part, Sidney began to feel that it was time for him to go. As he disappeared Gwen and Arthur came strolling back. “What a noisome creature Sidney is!” said Evelyn. “But he’ll be of use to you, Arthur.” “Did he talk about the old families of America and the gentle birth?” asked Gwen. Her eyes were curiously bright, and her manner and tone were agitated. “All that again.” “He’s an ass--a regular tomtit,” growled Frothingham. “I should think he’d learn,” said Evelyn, “that we don’t take him and his countrymen up because they’re well born--we know they aren’t.” “If those that are sensible enough to fly from that beastly country are like Sidney,” said Gwen, “what a rowdy lot there must be at home.” She spoke so nervously that Evelyn, abstracted though she was, glanced at her and noticed how pale and peaked she was. When she had ridden away Evelyn looked at her brother severely--she was only three and twenty, but she managed him, taking the place of both their parents, who were long dead. “You’ve been making love to Gwen,” she exclaimed reproachfully. “You should be ashamed of yourself.” Frothingham removed his monocle, wiped it carefully in a brilliant plaid silk handkerchief, and slowly fitted it in place. Then he sent a mocking, cynical gleam through it at his sister. “You forget,” he drawled, “that I caught you and Georgie kissing each other and crying over each other the day he went off to the States.” Evelyn flushed. “How does that excuse you?” she demanded, undismayed.