"Here's his card," replied George, pulling it out of his waistcoat-pocket. "I thought I had better be sure about it because of introducing him, you know. The women do get so savage when you leave a fellow's patronymic vague. Bless them, the dears! They've got their 'Almanach de Gotha' at their fingers' ends, and know to a fraction's nicety just how cordial they should be to each individual mother's son of them. So many smiles and graciousness to the elder son of a peer, so many less to an Honourable, and so many less again to a younger detrimental. The women of this country, my dear Tremain, are mad, simply mad over titles. It's the irony of history. What our forefathers fought and died for--equality, and the abolishment of mere hereditary rights--their grandchildren fall down and worship. For my part, I wonder the stern old Puritans don't turn in their graves with horror!" The card which Mr. Tremain held bore the name of Count Vladimir Mellikoff, and had no address save a pencilled one--"Brevoort House"--in one corner. The bit of paste-board was as non-committal as the stranger's face. "Is he a Russian?" asked Philip. "It looks so, doesn't it?" was the careless reply. "'A Roosian or a Proosian,' but certainly _not_ 'an Englishman.' Perhaps he's a Nihilist in disguise, perhaps he's a dynamiter, or a Land-leaguer, or a red-handed Communist, who knows? At any rate, he's got his match in Miss Patty; never saw such a case of 'bowl over' at first sight in my life, never, I give you my word." But Philip failed to rejoice in Mr. Newbold's hilarity; and that gentleman strolled off presently, in his peculiarly aimless fashion, and securing Count Vladimir Mellikoff by the simple device of slipping his hand within his arm, led him up to Philip, presenting him with all due ceremony. Mr. Tremain, contrary to the traditions of his country, and taking a leaf from Patricia's own book, passed by the foreigner's outstretched hand, and with a somewhat forbidding manner and bow, entered into conversation.