least hang about and wait for her. It may be confided to the reader at the risk of discounting the effect of the only passage in this very level narrative formed to startle that he never had to wait very long. When Jackson Lemon came in his wife’s visitors were on the point of leaving her; and he didn’t even ask his colleague to remain, for he had something particular to say to Lady Barb. “I haven’t put to you half the questions I wanted—I’ve been talking so much to Doctor Feeder,” the dressy Mrs. Chew said, holding the hand of her hostess in one of her own and toying at one of Lady Barb’s ribbons with the other. “I don’t think I’ve anything to tell you; I think I’ve told people everything,” Lady Barb answered rather wearily. “You haven’t told _me_ much!” Mrs. Vanderdecken richly radiated. “What could one tell you? You know everything,” Jackson impatiently laughed. “Ah no—there are some things that are great mysteries for me!” this visitor promptly pronounced. “I hope you’re coming to me on the seventeenth,” she added to Lady Barb. “On the seventeenth? I believe we go somewhere.” “Do go to Mrs. Vanderdecken’s,” said Mrs. Chew; “you’ll see the cream of the cream.” “Oh gracious!” Mrs. Vanderdecken vaguely cried. “Well, I don’t care; she will, won’t she, Doctor Feeder?—the very pick of American society.” Mrs. Chew stuck to her point. “Oh I’ve no doubt Lady Barb will have a good time,” said Sidney Feeder. “I’m afraid you miss the bran,” he went on with irrelevant jocosity to Jackson’s bride. He always tried the jocose when other elements had failed. “The bran?” Jackson’s bride couldn’t think. “Where you used to ride—in the Park.” “My dear fellow, you speak as if we had met at the circus,” her husband interposed. “I haven’t married a mountebank!” “Well, they put some stuff on the road,” Sidney Feeder explained, not holding much to his joke. “You must miss a great many things,” said Mrs. Chew tenderly. “I don’t see what,” Mrs. Vanderdecken tinkled, “except the fogs and the Queen. New York’s getting more and more like London. It’s a pity—you ought to have known us thirty years ago.” “_You’re_ the queen here,” said Jackson Lemon, “but I don’t know what you know about thirty years ago.” “Do you think she doesn’t go back?—she goes back to the last century!” cried Mrs. Chew. “I daresay I should have liked that,” said Lady Barb; “but I can’t imagine.” And she looked at her husband—a look she often had—as if she vaguely wished him to do something.