For a moment she looks perfectly vague, then, “Of course I have! He introduced you to the editor of the _Flail_; and he writes poetry himself?” It is the measure of how far her thoughts have strayed from Rupert and his group of æsthetics, that she should be so painstakingly detailed in proving that they have come back. “His translations of Verlaine were very remarkable, if you remember,” replies Rupert, kindly jogging her memory. It needs the assistance given, presenting for the time a perfect blank as to what the bard in question’s bid for immortality consists of. “I have had a wire from him, asking me to put him up for the night. He is staying with the Tanquerays. He has been of great use to me in various ways, and I did not quite like to refuse him.” Between each sentence the young man makes a slight pause, as if to give room for an expression of approval or acquiescence, but it is not before the full stop at the end that Lavinia is ready. “Of course you accepted him? You were perfectly right. What else could you do?” “It is a nuisance that it should have happened at this moment. My father will not be able to endure him; as I have often told you about him--he is _like me, only more so_!” Rupert smiles rather humorously, relieved at her acceptance of his news. She gives a smile too; but there is a shudder under it--a shudder which recurs more than once during the dinner and evening that follow, when, faithful to her lifelong profession of buffer, she draws the conversation of Mr. Dubary Jones upon herself, to avert the catastrophe that must ensue if it is directed to Sir George. In a party of four it is no easy task to prevent the talk becoming general; but ably seconded by Rupert, and by the exercise of ceaseless vigilance, attention, and civility, Miss Carew succeeds in securing the couple of _tête-à-têtes_, by which only a thunderbolt can be warded off. But while kindly and graciously smiling, listening, and asking, Rupert’s descriptive phrase, “_like me, only more so_,” drips like melted lead upon her heart. Does she indeed see before her what Rupert will come to in the ten years by which his friend is richer than he? Is this his logical conclusion?--this little decadent, who is trying to fit his conversation to a hostess whom he suspects of being sporting? “How delightful hunting must be!” She assents, “Very.” “And shooting! That must be so exciting!” Again she acquiesces with creditable gravity, adding that salmon-fishing is considered by many people to be the most engrossing of sports. For a moment he looks nonplussed, and at a loss for a suitable rejoinder; but quickly recovering himself, says brightly-- “Oh yes, it must be great fun, skipping from rock to rock.”