The quantities of servants, the perfectly turned-out motors--the wonderful chef--all had been his doing, and when most of the party had retired to their rooms for a little rest before dinner on the twenty-fifth, the evening of the ball, Lady de la Paule and John's friend, Lady Avonwier, congratulated him, as he sat with them, the last ladies remaining, under the great copper beech tree on the lawn which led down to the lake. "Everything has been perfect, has it not, Mabella?" Lady Avonwier said. "I have even been converted about your marvellous Madame Boleski! I confess I have avoided her all the season, because we Americans are far more exclusive than you English people in regard to whom we know of our own countrywomen, and no one would receive such a person in New York, but she is so luridly stupid, and such a decoration, that I quite agree you were right to invite her, John." "She seems to me charming," Lady de la Paule confessed. "Not the least pretension, and her clothes are marvellous. You are abominably severe, Etta. I am quite sure if she wanted to she could succeed in New York." "Mabella, you simple creature! She just cajoles you all the time--she has specialised in cajoling important great ladies! No American would be taken in by her, and we resent it in our country when an outsider like that barges in. But here, I admit, since she provides us with amusement, I have no objection to accepting her, as I would a new nigger band, and shall certainly send her a card for my fancy ball next week." John Ardayre chuckled softly. "That sound indicates?"--and Etta Avonwier flashed at him her lovely clever eyes. John Ardayre did not answer in words, but both women joined in his smile. "Yes, we are worldlings," Lady Avonwier admitted, "just measuring people up for what they can give us, it is the only way though when the whole thing is such a rush!" "I am so sorry for the poor husband," and Lady de la Paule's fat voice was kindly. "He does look such a wretched, cadaverous thing, with that black beard and those melancholy black eyes, and emaciated face. Do you think she beats him when they are alone?" "Who knows? She is so primitive, she may be capable even of that!" "Her clothes are not primitive," and John Ardayre lighted a cigarette. "I don't think she really can be such a fool." "I never suggested that she was a fool at all!" Lady Avonwier was decisive. "No one can be a fool who is as tenacious as she is--fools are vague people, who let things go. She is merely illiterate and stupid as an owl." "I like your distinction between stupidity and foolishness!" John Ardayre often argued with Lady Avonwier; they were excellent friends. "A stupid person is often a great rest and arrives--a fool makes one nervous and loses the game. But who is that walking with Amaryllis at the other side of the lake?"