The tone in which she spoke was curiously quiet and monotonous. I have heard such tones, in the Far West, from lonely settlers without a neighbouring soul to speak to. Has Mrs. Farnaby no neighbouring soul to speak to, except at dinner parties? “You are an Englishman, are you not?” she went on. I said Yes, and cast about in my mind for something to say to her. She saved me the trouble by making me the victim of a complete series of questions. This, as I afterwards discovered, was _her_ way of finding conversation for strangers. Have you ever met with absent-minded people to whom it is a relief to ask questions mechanically, without feeling the slightest interest in the answers? She began. “Where did you live in America?” “At Tadmor, in the State of Illinois.” “What sort of place is Tadmor?” I described the place as well as I could, under the circumstances. “What made you go to Tadmor?” It was impossible to reply to this, without speaking of the Community. Feeling that the subject was not in the least likely to interest her, I spoke as briefly as I could. To my astonishment, I evidently began to interest her from that moment. The series of questions went on--but now she not only listened, she was eager for the answers. “Are there any women among you?” “Nearly as many women as men.” Another change! Over the weary misery of her eyes there flashed a bright look of interest which completely transformed them. Her articulation even quickened when she put her next question. “Are any of the women friendless creatures, who came to you from England?” “Yes, some of them.” I thought of Mellicent as I spoke. Was this new interest that I had so innocently aroused, an interest in Mellicent? Her next question only added to my perplexity. Her next question proved that my guess had completely failed to hit the mark. “Are there any _young_ women among them?” Mr. Farnaby, standing with his back to us thus far, suddenly turned and looked at her, when she inquired if there were “young” women among us. “Oh yes,” I said. “Mere girls.” She pressed so near to me that her knees touched mine. “How old?” she asked eagerly. Mr. Farnaby left the window, walked close up to the sofa, and deliberately interrupted us. “Nasty muggy weather, isn’t it?” he said. “I suppose the climate of America--” Mrs. Farnaby deliberately interrupted her husband. “How old?” she repeated, in a louder tone. I was bound, of course, to answer the lady of the house. “Some girls from eighteen to twenty. And some younger.” “How much younger?” “Oh, from sixteen to seventeen.” She grew more and more excited; she positively laid her hand on my arm in her eagerness to secure my attention all to herself. “American girls or English?” she resumed, her fat, firm fingers closing on me with a tremulous grasp. “Shall you be in town in November?” said Mr. Farnaby, purposely interrupting us again. “If you would like to see the Lord Mayor’s Show--”