The morning after Lord Lambeth had had with his own frankest critic that exchange of ideas which has just been narrated, the ladies at Jones’s Hotel received from him a written invitation to pay their projected visit to Branches Castle on the following Tuesday. “I think I’ve made up a very pleasant party,” his lordship went on. “Several people whom you know, and my mother and sisters, who have been accidentally prevented from making your acquaintance sooner.” Bessie at this lost no time in calling her sister’s attention to the injustice she had done the Duchess of Bayswater, whose hostility was now proved to be a vain illusion. “Wait till you see if she comes,” said Mrs. Westgate. “And if she’s to meet us at her son’s house the obligation’s all the greater for her to call on us.” Bessie hadn’t to wait long, for it appeared that her friend’s parent now descried the direction in which, according to her companion’s observation, courtesy pointed. On the morrow, early in the afternoon, two cards were brought to the apartment of the American ladies—one of them bearing the name of the Duchess of Bayswater and the other that of the Countess of Pimlico. Mrs. Westgate glanced at the clock. “It isn’t yet four,” she said; “they’ve come early; they want really to find us. We’ll receive them.” And she gave orders that her visitors should be admitted. A few moments later they were introduced and a solemn exchange of amenities took place. The Duchess was a large lady with a fine fresh colour; the Countess of Pimlico was very pretty and elegant. The Duchess looked about her as she sat down—looked not especially at Mrs. Westgate. “I daresay my son has told you that I’ve been wanting to come to see you,” she dropped—and from no towering nor inconvenient height. “You’re very kind,” said Mrs. Westgate vaguely—her conscience not allowing her to assent to this proposition, and indeed not permitting her to enunciate her own with any appreciable emphasis. “He tells us you were so kind to him in America,” said the Duchess. “We’re very glad,” Mrs. Westgate replied, “to have been able to make him feel a little more—a little less—a little at home.” “I think he stayed at your house,” the visitor more heavily breathed, but as an overture, across to Bessie Alden. Mrs. Westgate intercepted the remark. “A very short time indeed.” “Oh!” said the Duchess; and she continued to address her interest to Bessie, who was engaged in conversation with her daughter. “Do you like London?” Lady Pimlico had asked of Bessie, after looking at her a good deal—at her face and her hands, her dress and her hair. The girl was prompt and clear. “Very much indeed.” “Do you like this hotel?” “It’s very comfortable.” “Do you like stopping at hotels?” Lady Pimlico asked after a pause. “I’m very fond of travelling, and I suppose hotels are a necessary part of it. But they’re not the part I’m fondest of,” Bessie without difficulty admitted.