Dinner at Detchworth Grange was most amusing that evening. One of the chief reasons--in fact, it would not be too venturesome to say THE chief reason--for Captain Palliser's frequent presence in very good country houses was that he had a way of making things amusing. His relation of anecdotes, of people and things, was distinguished by a manner which subtly declined to range itself on the side of vulgar gossip. Quietly and with a fine casualness he conveyed the whole picture of the new order at Temple Barholm. He did it with wonderfully light touches, and yet the whole thing was to be seen--the little old maid in her exquisite clothes, her unmistakable stamp of timid good breeding, her protecting adoration combined with bewilderment; the long, lean, not altogether ill-looking New York bounder, with his slight slouch, his dangerously unsophisticated-looking face, and his American jocularity of slang phrase. “He's of a class I know nothing about. I own he puzzled me a trifle at first,” Palliser said with his cool smile. “I'm not sure that I've 'got on to him' altogether yet. That's an expressive New York phrase of his own. But when we were strolling about together, he made revelations apparently without being in the least aware that they were revelations. He was unbelievable. My fear was that he would not go on.” “But he did go on?” asked Amabel. “One must hear something of the revelations.” Then was given in the best possible form the little drama of the talk in the garden. No shade of Mr. Temple Barholm's characteristics was lost. Palliser gave occasionally an English attempt at the reproduction of his nasal twang, but it was only a touch and not sufficiently persisted in to become undignified. “I can't do it,” he said. “None of us can really do it. When English actors try it on the stage, it is not in the least the real thing. They only drawl through their noses, and it is more than that.” The people of Detchworth Grange were not noisy people, but their laughter was unrestrained before the recital was finished. Nobody had gone so far as either to fear or to hope for anything as undiluted in its nature as this was. “Then he won't give us a chance, the least chance,” cried Lucy and Amabel almost in unison. “We are out of the running.” “You won't get even a look in--because you are not 'ladies,'” said their brother. “Poor Jem Temple Barholm! What a different thing it would have been if we had had him for a neighbor!” Mr. Grantham fretted. “We should have had Lady Joan Fayre as well,” said his wife. “At least she's a gentlewoman as well as a 'lady,'” Mr. Grantham said. “She would not have become so bitter if that hideous thing had not occurred.”