“Ah, my dear French,” she had said, “what a dear, sweet, amiable creature your mother was--and your father was a regular Trojan when he was roused. I remember taking Eliza there for a visit once, when she was growing up, and the singing mania had just possessed her. She sung all day and nearly all night--screech, screech--bang, bang on the piano. Your father almost danced, he was so mad--but your dear mother was all thoughtfulness. ‘My dear Sally,’ she would say every day laughing. ‘Don’t feel badly about Eliza’s singing, and the way Mr. Pembroke takes it. It is the only chance John Cave has to say a word to Elizabeth.’ Your mother was highly in favor of that match, I can tell you, though John had no great fortune--and your father was so fond of him too, that he really imagined John was courting him, instead of Elizabeth. But I shortened my visit considerably, I assure you.” All this flashed through Pembroke’s mind when Madame Koller spoke. And then he colored slightly. He was a little ashamed of the dilapidation of a once fine country house. During the war, the place had been raided and the house fired. The fire had been quickly extinguished, but the front porch and a part of one wing was charred. He felt some false, though natural shame at this, particularly as Ahlberg, when he and Pembroke were on visiting terms, had never been to the place without intimating that it was queer they did not have the house thoroughly rehabilitated. But Pembroke had inherited a soul of Arab hospitality, and he answered promptly: “Whenever you and Madame Schmidt will honor me with a visit, you will be most welcome.” “And will you ask Mr. Cave, too?” “Certainly. Mr. Cave is my closest friend.” Just as on a similar occasion, Colonel Berkeley had incurred Olivia’s wrath by inviting the Pembrokes to meet Madame Koller, so Miles, meaning to do the most agreeable thing in the world, informed Pembroke a day or two after he had mentioned that Madame Koller and her mother and Cave were coming to luncheon on Tuesday, that meeting Colonel Berkeley, he, Miles, had invited the Colonel and Olivia over for Tuesday, also--to meet the others. Miles walked away, whistling to his dog, serenely unconscious of the chagrin that overwhelmed Pembroke at this apparently harmless information. Pembroke did not swear, although he was profane upon occasions--but when Aunt Keturah, his old nurse and housekeeper, came to him the next minute to ask something about the proposed festivity, his answer was, “Go to the devil!” Aunt Keturah was naturally offended at this. “I didn’t never think _my_ mistis’ son gwin’ talk dat discontemptuous way to de mammy dat nuss him and Miss ’Lizbeth, and Marse Miles, an’ lay yo’ par out, and your mar, an’ set by Miss ’Lizbeth an’ hole her han’ ’twell de bref lef’ her body--” For your true African never omits to mention any family tragedy or sorrow or other lugubrious proceedings in which he or she may have had a part.