As the traveled observer in his own time may have noted, there is a type of cultured Britisher who regards it as stupid to appear smart in strange company, and yet another type who regards it as smart to appear stupid. Mr. Boyce-Upchurch fell into neither grouping. He spoke with a fluency, with an authoritative definiteness, with a finality, which checked all counter-thoughts at their sources. In his criticisms of this one and that one, he was severe or he was commendatory, as the merits of the individual case required. He did not give opinions so much as he rendered judgments. There was about him a convincing firmness. There was never even a trace, a suggestion of doubt. There were passages delivered with such eloquence that almost it seemed to some present as though Mr. Boyce-Upchurch must be quoting from a familiar manuscript. As, if the truth must be known, he was. Still, had not all of intellectual America as far west as Omaha acclaimed "Masters of the Modern English Novel, with Selected Readings from the Author's Own Books" as a noteworthy platform achievement? Thus the evening passed, and the Gridleys' dinner party. All had adjourned back again to the living-room, where coffee and cigarettes were being handed about, when from without came gusts of a warm swift wind blowing the curtains and bringing a breath of moistness. "Oh, I believe it's really fixing to rain," declared Mrs. Gridley, hopefully, and on this, as if in confirmation, they all heard a grumble of distant summer thunder off to the northwest. At that, Mrs. Thwaites said she and the Major really must run home--they'd come away leaving all the windows open. So they bade everybody good night--the first ones to go. Mr. Braid saw them to the door. In fact he saw them as far as the front porch. "Coming to the lecture tomorrow night, I suppose," he said. "Rally around a brother Briton, and all that sort of thing?" "I am not," said little Mrs. Thwaites, with a curious grim twist in her voice. "I heard it tonight." "Perishing blighter!" said the Major; which was quite a long speech for the Major. "I'm ashamed!" burst out Mrs. Thwaites in a vehement undertone. "Aren't you ashamed, too, Rolf?" "Rarther!" stated the Major. He grunted briefly but with passion. "Fault of any non-conformist country," pleaded young Mr. Braid, finely assuming mortification. "Raw, crude people--that sort of thing. Well-meaning but crude! Appalling ignorance touching on savories. No bitters in the home. No--" "Don't make fun," said Mrs. Thwaites. "You know I don't mean that." "Surely, surely you are not referring to our notable guest? Oh, Perfidious Albinos!" He registered profound grief. "I am not." Her words were like little screws turning. "Why should we be ashamed of him--Rolf and I? He's not typical--the insufferable bounder! Our writing folk aren't like that. He may have been well-bred--I doubt it. But now utterly spoiled."