‘Is it?--Well, I was looking at the question from another point of view. I thought that if Miss Mereweather disapproves so strongly of men in general, it would annoy her to be mistaken for one of that odious and inferior sex; and, moreover, would only be a sign of how very different she must be from most women.’ ‘She is very superior to most women; if that is what you mean, I concede the point willingly.’ ‘Well, if such a superior woman is often mistaken for a man, is not that a piece of negative evidence of the inferiority of women in general?’ he asked politely. Helena’s face had flushed again. ‘As I said, Laura shall talk to you. She will argue much better than I can. I do not pretend to her abilities. And there is Parsons announcing dinner,’ added Helena hastily, her colour mounting still higher as she caught Sebastian’s eyes fixed with a grave yet not unkindly expression upon her face. He rose to offer Mrs. Spenceley his arm, and stood with her, watching the couples as they filed out of the room. Yes, Helena was lovely, and not all her wild talk, not even her enthusiastic admiration for Miss Mereweather, could make her otherwise. He looked absently on, as first his mother and Mr. Spenceley went by; next a gorgeous dowager, whose tribal name and standing were unknown to him, but whom he distinctly heard saying something about ‘the ’oist at the Lang’um ’otel,’ as she swept past on the arm of a flaccid-faced, red-haired, meek-looking man, pertaining to the goodly company of cotton-spinners. The wife of the said cotton-spinner followed next, with a gentle-looking incumbent--he who ministered to the spiritual needs of Mr. Spenceley and his family. More couples followed. Fred Spenceley with Miss Mereweather--more gorgeous dowagers and resplendent spinsters, and more of the native young men, leading the same to the banquet, and, at last, Helena, in her creamy robes, with Hugo. ‘The lucky young dog!’ thought Sebastian, resignedly, as Hugo’s eyes met his, and the lad smiled rather triumphantly, in the full consciousness that he was leading out the prettiest woman in the room. Was she talking women’s rights now? Sebastian wondered, as he silently brought up the rear with the equally silent Mrs. Spenceley. No! She was laughing with Hugo, like any other pleasant, well-conditioned girl, and asking him to tell her exactly how he spelt his name, and if it had any particular meaning. ‘For I know nothing about German, you know, except a translation of the “Sorrows of Werther,” which I thought very funny.’ ‘And I do not know much about English,’ said Hugo, much delighted with his own good fortune, ‘but I can understand yours, _sehr gut_, I mean, very well. You speak so clearly--it is different from the London people.’