“My carriage and horses and servants haven’t varied much for forty years, and I can’t change now. It’s all very well for you people who are accustomed to sudden changes to have your smart broughams and victorias, and your pink–and–white English coachmen and footmen, but it would look perfectly ridiculous in Sara Luttrell, don’t you see?” This to some aspiring newcomers whose equipage had been in a steady process of evolution from the time that a Dayton wagon was a luxury until now every season saw a complete revolution in their stables. Or, “I know my ermine cape looks as if it was made in Queen Elizabeth’s time, but I can’t afford to throw it away; and, Lord bless you, what does it matter whether one is in the fashion or not?” This to a lady who knew that her whole social existence depended upon her being in fashion. It was insolent, of course, but Mrs. Luttrell meant to be insolent, and was so successfully, smiling meanwhile her youthful smile, showing her perfect teeth and certain of an answering smile from the men who were always at her elbow. Her whole world then thought she defied and laughed at the smart set; but Richard Baskerville saw, and had the assurance to tell her, that she secretly liked them very much and even sought their countenance by unique means. “Well,” said Mrs. Luttrell, settling herself and adjusting the immortal ermine cape around her lace–covered shoulders, “I have a surprise in store for you to–night. Who do you think is to dine here?” “Myself number one, Senator and Mrs. Thorndyke, and Judge Woodford. I believe you are in love with that man, Sara Luttrell.” This calling her by her first name Mrs. Luttrell reckoned a charming piece of impudence on Richard Baskerville’s part, and in saying it his smile was so pleasant, his voice so agreeable, his manner so arch, that he conveyed extreme flattery by it. It made her the same age as himself. “No, my dear boy, you are mistaken in that particular; but I have a surprise in store for you.” A pause. “Why don’t you ask me who it is?” “Because you’ll tell me in two minutes, if I just let you alone. You never could keep anything to yourself.” “It is—Anne Clavering.” Richard Baskerville sat up quickly. Surprise and pleasure shone in his face. “Why, Sara, I didn’t think you could do anything as decent as that.” “I don’t know why. I’ve always liked the girl. And I believe you are about half in love with her.” “You are such a suspicious old woman! But considering the share I am taking on the part of the original mortgages in those K.F.R. land grants, which may land Senator Clavering in state’s prison, I feel some delicacy in paying any attention to his daughter.” “Naturally, I should think. But you were deep in the land–grant lawsuits before you ever met Anne Clavering.”