“My story’s meant to illustrate that of some other people,” said Mrs. Westgate. “The Duke of Green-Erin’s what they call in England a great swell, and some five years ago he came to America. He spent most of his time in New York, and in New York he spent his days and his nights at the Butterworths’. You’ve heard at least of the Butterworths. _Bien_. They did everything in the world for him—the poor Butterworths—they turned themselves inside out. They gave him a dozen dinner-parties and balls, and were the means of his being invited to fifty more. At first he used to come into Mrs. Butterworth’s box at the opera in a tweed travelling-suit, but some one stopped that. At any rate he had a beautiful time and they parted the best friends in the world. Two years elapse and the Butterworths come abroad and go to London. The first thing they see in all the papers—in England those things are in the most prominent place—is that the Duke of Green-Erin has arrived in town for the season. They wait a little, and then Mr. Butterworth—as polite as ever—goes and leaves a card. They wait a little more; the visit’s not returned; they wait three weeks: _silence de mort_, the Duke gives no sign. The Butterworths see a lot of other people, put down the Duke of Green-Erin as a rude ungrateful man and forget all about him. One fine day they go to Ascot Races—where they meet him face to face. He stares a moment and then comes up to Mr. Butterworth, taking something from his pocket-book—something which proves to be a banknote. ‘I’m glad to see you, Mr. Butterworth,’ he says, ‘so that I can pay you that ten pounds I lost to you in New York. I saw the other day you remembered our bet; here are the ten pounds, Mr. Butterworth. Good-bye, Mr. Butterworth.’ And off he goes, and that’s the last they see of the Duke of Green-Erin.” “Is that your story?” asked Bessie Alden. “Don’t tell me you don’t think it interesting!” her sister replied. “I don’t think I believe it,” said the girl. “Ah, then,” cried Mrs. Westgate, “mademoiselle isn’t of such an unspotted _candeur_! Believe it or not as you like. There’s at any rate no smoke without fire.” “Is that the way,” asked Bessie after a moment, “that you expect your friends to treat you?” “I defy them to treat me very ill, for the simple reason that I shall never give them the opportunity. With the best will in the world, in that case, they can’t be very disobliging.” Our young lady for a time said nothing. “I don’t see what makes you talk that way,” she then resumed. “The English are a great people.” “Exactly; and that’s just the way they’ve grown great—by dropping you when you’ve ceased to be useful. People say they aren’t clever, but I find them prodigiously clever.” “You know you’ve liked them—all the Englishmen you’ve seen,” Bessie brought up. “They’ve liked _me_,” her sister returned; “so I think I’d rather put it. And of course one likes that.”