The party was rather more punctual at dinner on Sunday night, and Lady Tilchester had arranged, as she meant to the night before, that I should sit next her politician. Mr. Budge and Mrs. Gurrage--the names went well together! I do not know anything about politics, but he is what I suppose must be a Radical, as he preaches home rule for Ireland, and equal rights for all mankind, and an apologetic tone to other nations, and a general dividing up of all one's _biens_. But they say he has a splendid house in Grosvenor Square, and a flat in Paris, and never asks any but the smartest titled people to his big pheasant shoot in Suffolk. He was delightful at dinner, anyway, and made me laugh. His voice is clear, with just the faintest touch of Irish in it. And he sparred with Lady Tilchester across me. She is the greatest _grande dame_ one could meet, and a Tory to the backbone in politics, but her manner to the servants is not nearly so haughty as Mr. Budge's. I do not like his hands; I cannot say why; they are neither big nor ill-shapen, but there is something fat and feminine about the fingers. I dare say, underneath, he could be like Augustus. Lady Tilchester is devoted to him, and he has the greatest admiration and respect for her. Their conversation is most interesting. Some of the other men are very nice, and several of them almost come up to grandmamma's criterion of the perfect male--that he should "look like a man and behave like a gentleman." The women are very smartly dressed all the time, but they do not show a great sense of the fitness of things. Only Lady Grenellen and Lady Tilchester are always adorable and attractive in anything and in any way. I believe they do not love one another very much, although they are quite friendly; one somehow can see it in their eyes. The Tilchester boy, who is thirteen, has just gone to Eton, but will soon be home for the holidays; the little girl is at the sea. So I have not seen either of them. The whole house here is so beautifully done; there is no fuss, and everything is exactly where one wants to find it. I shall be sorry when we leave. Just as we had begun luncheon to-day, Sir Antony Thornhirst came in, and, after a casual greeting to every one, sat down near me. He seems quite at home here, and as if he were accustomed to turning up unannounced in this way. I felt such a queer, quick beating in my heart. I suppose because among all these strangers he was some one I knew before. "So you decided not to cut the Gordian knot," he said, presently, as if we were continuing the discussion of some argument we had had a moment before. He bridged in an instant the great gulf since my wedding. This _sang froid_ stupefied me. I found nothing to say. He continued: