“I often feel like that,” he answered her, “I’m not much of a society person either and I can’t keep up with these wonderful women we’re seeing everywhere. Women with a lot of brains frighten me.” Idle talk, with his real, little prejudice back it, which Freda by accident uncovered immediately. She was talking against time so he would not leave her unguarded, and it was chance that she pleased him so much. “Women have a lot of brains now,” she said, “in politics and--society too, I suppose. But I wonder if we weren’t more attractive when we weren’t quite so brilliant. I don’t mean when we had huge families and did the washing and made the butter. I mean when we were more romantic and not quite so--” She stumbled a little. She was conscious of being historically at sea, vague in her definition of romance. But she had said that several times before and it came easily to her tongue. She stopped, feeling awkward and then amazed at Mr. Flandon’s enthusiasm. “That’s it!” he exclaimed, “that’s what I miss. Women have stopped being romantic. They’ve done worse. They’ve penetrated our souls and dug out the romance and analyzed it among themselves.” But she could not answer. Some one announced dinner and Freda moved with the rest to get her first enchanted sight of the Brownley dining table with its wedge wood vases full of roses and narcissus, its shining perfection of detail. She was near her hostess’ end of the table, Mr. Flandon at her left and one of the Bates boys at her right. Mrs. Brownley had wanted to talk to Gage and had decided, as she placed the cards, that Freda would take as little of his attention as any one present. She started in after the consommé to find out what Gage thought about the Republican committee. It was most unsatisfactory for he seemed to be absorbed in telling something to Miss Thorstad and gave answers to his hostess as if his mind were on something else. As for Gage, he was talking more animatedly than he had talked to any woman in years, thought his wife, watching him. “What heresy is my husband pouring into your ears, Miss Thorstad?” she asked, leaning forward. Freda blushed a little as the attention turned to her. “He is telling me the arguments I’ve been wanting to hear--against being a perfectly modern woman.” “Proselytizing!” said Margaret. “Wait a bit, Miss Thorstad. Let me get the other ear after dinner.” “Freda likes to tease,” explained her mother to their host. Barbara looked a little disdainful, making some remark _sotto voce_ to Ted. But he was not listening. Freda had, in the rise of her spirits, given him a smile across the table, the kind of come-there smile she gave David Grant of Mohawk when she wanted to skate with him or dance with him--a smile of perfectly frank allure. He returned it with interest.