"Well, a man don't--one isn't likely to know about things like that," said J. B. somewhat embarrassed. "But I believe he did--right after the party, in the midst of the rumpus when the Pallinders were getting it right and left from everybody." "And she refused him? I think it was fine of Bob to ask her. Like you and Muriel, wasn't it?" "Hey?" said J. B., very much startled. A sudden flush appeared on his amiable, middle-aged countenance; he goes clean-shaven now, he who was so gallantly moustached in eighty-three--such are the mutations of fashion. "I mean in the play--in 'Mrs. Tankerville,'" I added hastily. "Oh, the play--oh, yes, I remember." He looked down meditatively, fingering the stem of his wine-glass as we sat at luncheon. Muriel would not have refused _him_, had she been asked in good earnest; I wondered if he knew it--but I think he was at once too gallant and too simple--honest, kindly J. B.! "I saw her when I was over this last time," he said. "She's the Countess of Yedborough now, you know. She's got eight children! The oldest girl looks something like her, but not so handsome as her mother was at her age--oh, not to compare. She was the handsomest woman I ever saw." "Has she changed much?" "Well, these big women--she's got awfully fat--fine-looking still, of course, but she's too fat." Then, catching my eye inadvertently directed on his own not inconsiderable expanse of light waistcoat, he grinned good-naturedly. "Guess I'd better be careful how I throw stones around here," said he. "I'm living in a glass house myself." "Did Muriel ask after any of us?" "Oh, yes, wanted to know about everyone--even Ted Johns. I told her they'd found out that Huddesley put some drug in Ted's wine that night, so that it wasn't liquor that was the matter with him. I thought I'd save his reputation that much, if I could. Poor Ted, how he did waste his life! No man ever had better chances at the beginning, but he was his own worst enemy." "You might say that of all of us." "Yes, I suppose so. But we don't all drink like fish. Kind of sad about Teddy; he got some appointment in the commissariat when our troops went to Cuba, and died of the fever at Siboney in '98--you knew that? He ought never to have risked going to that climate; he couldn't have had any constitution left by that time." I assented, and we paid Teddy's memory the tribute of a moment's silence; yet I dare say we were not thinking so much of him and his career, as of our own youth and the inevitable years. "Well, this has been very pleasant, but I must go," he said presently and rose. "Next time I come West I'm going to bring my wife; I want her to meet everyone here--the old set, I mean. She's heard me talk about you so much. I wish we could meet a little oftener, but living so far apart--you know----"