This was not the reputation of an honest fellow, a true friend, a brave worker, a gallant gentleman, a reverent and sincere Christian, even in sorry days, for the most part, where Christianity was concerned. But it was the reputation of a man gnawed to the core by the rust of selfishness and self-conceit, who could sneer with the finished grace of a cold-hearted man of the world, pluming himself on having ate of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil—on the evil side alone, having summarily rejected the good as unworthy of his consideration. Did Lady Bell belong to the order of women who admire such men? It looked as if this man were to her taste; and to give the devil his due, your fine gentleman, when he had everything his own way, could be pleasant—few pleasanter among the best of good people. The very absence of feeling, and presence of heartless good nature, invested Sir George with a kind of airy agreeability and versatility. CHAPTER XII. THE LITTLE DINNER AT HAMPTON, WITH MUSIC ON THE WATER. In the course of the little dinner in the Hampton tea-room, Sir George would not only not sit down till the rest of the party were seated, but he would supersede a regular waiter to wait upon his companions. It might have been for the peculiar satisfaction of waiting on Lady Bell, but certainly he did not confine his cares to that quarter of the table. He, the finest gentleman in the room, but that was saying little, did the whole waiting. He changed plates and placed glasses, and brought round sauces, so neatly and so comically, with such cleverness, taste, and devotion, making amends to everybody, as it were, for all his previous shortcomings—not caring, though his own meal were cold, or though he had not a meal at all—that it was hard, before so patent a proof, not to think him unselfish as well as delightful. “Upon my word,” mumbled Lady Sundon, with her mouth full of cutlet, “Sir George is the charmingest man going—he beats the women out and out, even you, Lady Bell. I don’t wonder that nobody can say nay to him.” Mrs. Lascelles did not appear so bent on redeeming her character; she still made wry faces and turned up her nose at the pickled walnuts and the cherry pie. But Lady Bell was in her element. “I wonder if there are any cows here,” she cried, peeping out of the window behind her. “If there had been such a Whitefoot as we have at Summerhill, I might have run out and milked her and whipped you a syllabub in no time. Yes, I can whip syllabubs, Mrs. Lascelles, you need not look incredulous, and strain gooseberry fool too, only this is not the season of the year for gooseberries.” “Ain’t it?” inquired Mrs. Lascelles with languid innocence. “Gracious, madam! did you not know that we hadn’t gooseberries in February?” questioned Lady Sundon, staring goggle-eyed at this curious piece of ignorance.