that came at his command. When we went back to the drawing-room we found Miss Ambient alone in possession and prompt to mention that her sister-in-law had a quarter of an hour before been called by the nurse to see the child, who appeared rather unwell—a little feverish. “Feverish! how in the world comes he to be feverish?” Ambient asked. “He was perfectly right this afternoon.” “Beatrice says you walked him about too much—you almost killed him.” “Beatrice must be very happy—she has an opportunity to triumph!” said my friend with a bright bitterness which was all I could have wished it. “Surely not if the child’s ill,” I ventured to remark by way of pleading for Mrs. Ambient. “My dear fellow, you aren’t married—you don’t know the nature of wives!” my host returned with spirit. I tried to match it. “Possibly not; but I know the nature of mothers.” “Beatrice is perfect as a mother,” sighed Miss Ambient quite tremendously and with her fingers interlaced on her embroidered knees. “I shall go up and see my boy,” her brother went on. “Do you suppose he’s asleep?” “Beatrice won’t let you see him, dear”—as to which our young lady looked at me, though addressing our companion. “Do you call that being perfect as a mother?” Ambient asked. “Yes, from her point of view.” “Damn her point of view!” cried the author of “Beltraffio.” And he left the room; after which we heard him ascend the stairs. I sat there for some ten minutes with Miss Ambient, and we naturally had some exchange of remarks, which began, I think, by my asking her what the point of view of her sister-in-law could be. “Oh it’s so very odd. But we’re so very odd altogether. Don’t you find us awfully unlike others of our class?—which indeed mostly, in England, is awful. We’ve lived so much abroad. I adore ‘abroad.’ Have you people like us in America?” “You’re not all alike, you interesting three—or, counting Dolcino, four—surely, surely; so that I don’t think I understand your question. We’ve no one like your brother—I may go so far as that.” “You’ve probably more persons like his wife,” Miss Ambient desolately smiled. “I can tell you that better when you’ve told me about her point of view.” “Oh yes—oh yes. Well,” said my entertainer, “she doesn’t like his ideas. She doesn’t like them for the child. She thinks them undesirable.” Being quite fresh from the contemplation of some of Mark Ambient’s _arcana_ I was particularly in a position to appreciate this announcement. But the effect of it was to make me, after staring a moment, burst into laughter which I instantly checked when I remembered the indisposed child above and the possibility of parents nervously or fussily anxious. “What has that infant to do with ideas?” I asked. “Surely he can’t tell one from another. Has he read his father’s novels?”