"I've had a splendid time," he said, blushing. "This is the nicest reception I've been to yet. The house is so pretty and--and everything. I was thinking I shouldn't go anywhere else; but I believe I shall now." When he shook hands with Arbuthnot he regarded him with admiration and awe. "I'm much obliged to you," he said, his vague sense of indebtedness taking form. "If you ever come to Whippleville I'm sure my father would like to--to see you." And he retired with his young relatives, blushing still, and occasionally treading on their feet, but his modesty, notwithstanding, bearing with him an inoffensive air of self-respect, which would be more than likely to last him through the day, and perhaps a little beyond it. Mrs. Sylvestre's eyes met Arbuthnot's when he was gone. "You were _very_ kind to him," she said. "I am obliged to confess," he replied, "that it was nothing but the low promptings of vanity which inspired me. It dawned upon me that he was impressed by my superior ease and elegance, and I seized the opportunity of exhibiting them." "You knew just what to say to him," she added. "That," he replied, "was entirely owing to the fact that I was a boy myself in the early part of the last century." "He was an appreciative boy," she said, "and a grateful one; but I am sure I could not have made him comfortable if you had not been so kind." And she once again bestowed upon him the subtle flattery of appearing to lose herself an instant in reflection upon him. There were no more callers after this. Later on an unconventional little dinner was served, during which Mrs. Sylvestre was placed between Arbuthnot and Tredennis, Planefield loomed up massive and florid at Bertha's side, and Richard devoted himself with delightful ardor to discussing French politics with the young woman who fell to his share. This young woman, whose attire was perfect and whose manner was admirable, and who was furthermore endowed with a piquant, irregular face and a captivating voice, had attracted Tredennis's attention early in the evening. She had been talking to Richard when he had seen her first, and she had been talking to Richard at intervals ever since, and evidently talking very well. "I don't know your friend," he said to Bertha, after dinner, "and I did not hear her name when I was presented." "Then you have hitherto lived in vain," said Bertha, glancing at her. "That is what Richard would tell you. Her name is Helen Varien." "It is a very pretty name," remarked Tredennis. "Ah!" said Bertha. "You certainly might trust her not to have an ugly one. She has attained that state of finish in the matter of her appendages which insures her being invariably to be relied on. I think she must even have invented her relatives--or have ordered them, giving _carte blanche_." She watched her a moment with a smile of interest.