“Oh you see I’m just acting for some English shareholders by way of legal advice. Some of my friends—well, if the truth must be told,” Mr. Beaumont laughed—“have a grievance against one of your confounded railways, and they’ve asked me to come and judge, if possible, on the spot, what they can hope.” Mr. Westgate’s amused eyes grew almost tender. “What’s your railroad?” he asked. “The Tennessee Central.” The American tilted back his chair and poised it an instant. “Well, I’m sorry you want to attack one of our institutions. But I guess you had better enjoy yourself _first_!” “I’m certainly rather afraid I can’t work in this weather,” the young emissary confessed. “Leave that to the natives,” said Mr. Westgate. “Leave the Tennessee Central to me, Mr. Beaumont. I guess I can tell you more about it than most any one. But I didn’t know you Englishmen ever did any work—in the upper classes.” “Oh we do a lot of work, don’t we, Lambeth?” Percy Beaumont appealed. “I must certainly be back early for _my_ engagements,” said his companion irrelevantly but gently. “For the shooting, eh? or is it the yachting or the hunting or the fishing?” inquired his entertainer. “Oh I must be in Scotland,”—and Lord Lambeth just amiably blushed. “Well, then,” Mr. Westgate returned, “you had better amuse yourself first also. You must go right down and see Mrs. Westgate.” “We should be so happy—if you’d kindly tell us the train,” said Percy Beaumont. “You don’t take any train. You take a boat.” “Oh I see. And what is the name of—a—the—a—town?” “It’s a regular old city—don’t you let them hear you call it a village or a hamlet or anything of that kind. They’d half-kill you. Only it’s a city of pleasure—of lawns and gardens and verandahs and views and, above all, of good Samaritans,” Mr. Westgate developed. “But you’ll see what Newport is. It’s cool. That’s the principal thing. You’ll greatly oblige me by going down there and putting yourself in the hands of Mrs. Westgate. It isn’t perhaps for me to say it, but you couldn’t be in better ones. Also in those of her sister, who’s staying with her. She’s half-crazy about Englishmen. She thinks there’s nothing like them.” “Mrs. Westgate or—a—her sister?” asked Percy Beaumont modestly, yet in the tone of a collector of characteristic facts. “Oh I mean my wife,” said Mr. Westgate. “I don’t suppose my sister-in-law knows much about them yet. You’ll show her anyhow. She has always led a very quiet life. She has lived in Boston.” Percy Beaumont listened with interest. “That, I believe, is the most intellectual centre.” “Well, yes—Boston knows it’s central and feels it’s intellectual. I don’t go there much—I stay round here,” Mr. Westgate more loosely pursued. “I say, you know, _we_ ought to go there,” Lord Lambeth broke out to his companion.