“I don't understand him, or I don't understand Captain Palliser's story,” Amabel Grantham argued. “Lucy and I are quite out of the running, but I honestly believe that he takes as much notice of us as he does of any of you. If he has intentions, he 'doesn't act the part,' which is pure New York of the first water.” “He said, however, that the things that mattered were not only titles, but looks. He asked how many of us were 'lookers.' Don't be modest, Amabel. Neither you nor Lucy are out of the running,” Beatrice amiably suggested. “Ladies first,” commented Amabel, pertly. There was no objection to being supported in one's suspicion that, after all, one was a “looker.” “There may be a sort of explanation,” Honora put the idea forward somewhat thoughtfully. “Captain Palliser insists that he is much shrewder than he seems. Perhaps he is cautious, and is looking us all over before he commits himself.” “He is a Temple Barholm, after all,” said Gwynedd, with boldness. “He's rather good looking. He has the nicest white teeth and the most cheering grin I ever saw, and he's as 'rich as grease is,' as I heard a housemaid say one day. I'm getting quite resigned to his voice, or it is improving, I don't know which. If he only knew the mere A B C of ordinary people like ourselves, and he committed himself to me, I wouldn't lay my hand on my heart and say that one might not think him over.” “I told you she was tremendously taken with him,” said her sister. “It's come to this.” “But,” said Lady Gwynedd, “he is not going to commit himself to any of us, incredible as it may seem. The one person he stares at sometimes is Joan Fayre, and he only looks at her as if he were curious and wouldn't object to finding out why she treats him so outrageously. He isn't annoyed; he's only curious.” “He's been adored by salesladies in New York,” said Honora, “and he can't understand it.” “He's been liked,” Amabel Grantham summed him up. “He's a likable thing. He's even rather a dear. I've begun to like him myself.” “I hear you are learning to play croquet,” the Duke of Stone remarked to him a day or so later. “How do you like it?” “Lady Gwynedd Talchester is teaching me,” Tembarom answered. “I'd learn to iron shirt-waists if she would give me lessons. She's one of the two that have dimples,” he added, reflection in his tone. “I guess that'll count. Shouldn't you think it would?” “Miss Hutchinson?” queried the duke. Tembarom nodded. “Yes, it's always her,” he answered without a ray of humor. “I just want to stack 'em up.”