“Exactly so. Mrs. Westgate tells me that there’s no such thing as the fast girl in America; that it’s an English invention altogether and that the term has no meaning here.” “All the better. It’s an animal I detest,” said Lord Lambeth. “You prefer, then, rather a priggish American _précieuse_?” Lord Lambeth took his time. “Do you call Miss Alden all that?” “Her sister tells me,” said Percy Beaumont, “that she’s tremendously literary.” “Well, why shouldn’t she be? She’s certainly very clever and has every appearance of a well-stored mind.” Percy for an instant watched his young friend, who had turned away. “I should rather have supposed you’d find her stores oppressive.” The young man, after this, faced him again. “Why, do you think me such a dunce?” And then as his friend but vaguely protested: “The girl’s all right,” he said—and quite as if this judgement covered all the ground. It wasn’t that there was no ground—but he knew what he was about. Percy, for a while further, and a little uncomfortably flushed with the sense of his false position—that of presenting culture in a “mean” light, as they said at Newport—Percy kept his peace; but on August 10th he wrote to the Duchess of Bayswater. His conception of certain special duties and decencies, as I have said, was strong, and this step wholly fell in with it. His companion meanwhile was having much talk with Miss Alden—on the red sea-rocks beyond the lawn; in the course of long island rides, with a slow return in the glowing twilight; on the deep verandah, late in the evening. Lord Lambeth, who had stayed at many houses, had never stayed at one in which it was possible for a young man to converse so freely and frequently with a young lady. This young lady no longer applied to their other guest for information concerning his lordship. She addressed herself directly to the young nobleman. She asked him a great many questions, some of which did, according to Mr. Beaumont’s term, a little oppress him; for he took no pleasure in talking about himself. “Lord Lambeth”—this had been one of them—“are you an hereditary legislator?” “Oh I say,” he returned, “don’t make me call myself such names as that.” “But you’re natural members of Parliament.” “I don’t like the sound of that either.” “Doesn’t your father sit in the House of Lords?” Bessie Alden went on. “Very seldom,” said Lord Lambeth. “Is it a very august position?” she asked. “Oh dear no,” Lord Lambeth smiled. “I should think it would be very grand”—she serenely kept it up, as the female American, he judged, would always keep anything up—“to possess simply by an accident of birth the right to make laws for a great nation.” “Ah, but one doesn’t make laws. There’s a lot of humbug about it.” “I don’t believe that,” the girl unconfusedly declared. “It must be a great privilege, and I should think that if one thought of it in the right way—from a high point of view—it would be very inspiring.”