“I’m looking forward to Charles meeting you. I guess he’ll be a little put out at our having you, but there’s no harm letting him see I’m to be reckoned with. Naturally his wife, Millie, is more or less mentioned as a social leader, but I never could see that she is really any more prominent than I am. In fact, last year after our Bazaar of All Nations our pictures in costume were in the Spokane paper as ‘Red Gap’s Rival Society Queens,’ and I suppose that’s what we are, though we work together pretty well as a rule. Still, I must say, having you puts me a couple of notches ahead of her. Only, for heaven’s sake, keep your eye on Cousin Egbert!” “I shall do my duty, Madam,” I returned, thinking it all rather morbidly interesting, these weird details about their county families. “I’m sure you will,” she said at parting. “I feel that we shall do things right this year. Last year the Sunday Spokane paper used to have nearly a column under the heading ‘Social Doings of Red Gap’s Smart Set.’ This year we’ll have a good two columns, if I don’t miss my guess.” In the smoking-compartment I found Cousin Egbert staring gloomily into vacancy, as one might say, the reason I knew being that he had vainly pleaded with Mrs. Effie to be allowed to spend this time at their Coney Island, which is a sort of Brighton. He transferred his stare to me, but it lost none of its gloom. “Hell begins to pop!” said he. “Referring to what, sir?” I rejoined with some severity, for I have never held with profanity. “Referring to Charles Belknap Hyphen Jackson of Boston, Mass.,” said he, “the greatest little trouble-maker that ever crossed the hills--with a bracelet on one wrist and a watch on the other and a one-shot eyeglass and a gold cigareet case and key chains, rings, bangles, and jewellery till he’d sink like lead if he ever fell into the crick with all that metal on.” “You are speaking, sir, about a person who matters enormously,” I rebuked him. “If I hadn’t been afraid of getting arrested I’d have shot him long ago.” “It’s not done, sir,” I said, quite horrified by his rash words. “It’s liable to be,” he insisted. “I bet Ma Pettengill will go in with me on it any time I give her the word. Say, listen! there’s one good mixer.” “The confirmed Mixer, sir?” For I remembered the term. “The best ever. Any one can set into her game that’s got a stack of chips.” He uttered this with deep feeling, whatever it might exactly mean. “I can be pushed just so far,” he insisted sullenly. It struck me then that he should perhaps have been kept longer in one of the European capitals. I feared his brief contact with those refining influences had left him less polished than Mrs. Effie seemed to hope. I wondered uneasily if he might not cause her to miss her guess. Yet I saw he was in no mood to be reasoned with, and I retired to my bed which the blackamoor guard had done out. Here I meditated profoundly for some time before I slept.