“I don’t know that cards are my idea of a good time,” said Gerard quietly. “I’m not fond of them, and I’ve only played poker once, and that a long time ago.” “Won’t you try your luck now?” “I think not to-day,” said Gerard. “Aldington and I have to be getting back to town.” “Oh, no. You’ll stay to dinner, won’t you? Aldington’s going to.” Gerard tried to get hold of Arthur, to persuade him to leave the Priory without delay. But his friend had been too much attracted by Cora Van Santen to be able to tear himself away so soon, and they found themselves forced to stay to dinner, which was fixed on Sunday at the early hour of half-past six, in order to leave more time for card-playing afterwards, as Gerard discovered. When the guests who had stayed to dinner, who numbered some eight or nine, retired to the drawing-rooms afterwards, they found there some half-dozen new arrivals, who had dropped in for the evening. When Gerard entered the music-room, after dinner, where he hoped to be allowed to remain, in order to escape the card-playing, he caught sight of a figure which he thought was familiar, but which he could not immediately identify. It was that of a tall, broad-shouldered young man, dressed, like most of the others, in dinner coat of the usual type. He stood a little apart, as if not quite at home among the others, and Gerard looked at him two or three times, without being able to recollect where he had seen him before. He was a rather silly-looking man with gentle dark eyes, an insignificant nose, and a black mustache, and he seemed, from the little which Gerard heard him say, to be as dull and commonplace a fellow as ever made one of the background figures at any social gathering. He talked about the weather, and uttered those important remarks shyly, as if ashamed of the sound of his own voice; altogether a very dull and uninteresting person he seemed to be. Gerard overheard Sir William Gurdon asking one of the Van Santens who he was. “Well, I believe his name is Jones, and that’s about all I know about him, except that he’s been here three times, and hasn’t opened his mouth more than twice,” replied Denver, with a laugh. “A regular type of your bullet-headed, stolid Englishman, I call him.” “We’re not all so dull as he appears to be,” retorted Sir William, as he turned away. Mr. Jones was so shy that Mrs. Van Santen took compassion on him, and introduced him to one or two of the ladies, and in particular to Rachel Davison, to whom she whispered-- “Your poor compatriot is so frightened that you’d be doing him a kindness if you’d say something to him. Tell him it’s some time since we Americans were cannibals; but for that matter, if we were still, I think _he’d_ be quite safe.” And the good creature led the shy young man up to Miss Rachel, and said-- “Mr. Cecil Jones--Miss Davison.” Rachel smiled and spoke kindly to the poor fellow, and tried to put him at his ease.