"It's four years ago since I came to Eu-rope," resumed Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe. "I've got more spry about your ways than I was. But there's one thing I don't hold with, and that is that you don't believe in your women. Our Amurcan girls, now, go to their balls, and parties, and skatin' matches, and junketings, and the young fellows see them home and 'squire them about, and we don't think no harm of it; and as for scandal, why, we'd call a man a blackguard who'd say a word against a girl's character for goin' about with another man. It's a point of honour with _them_ to treat 'em just as respectfully as if a hundred mothers and chaperons were looking on. Now, here in Europe you're all in such a mortal funk, not only with your gals, but with your married women. You don't seem to believe in such a thing as friendship. Why, if a man and a woman like to talk to each other there's a scandal directly! I surmise it's your way, but it bothers me, that it does." There is a little titter among the fair worshippers at the shrine of tea and riches. "Dear Mrs. Woollffe, you do say such odd things; but I think you quite mistake. We are certainly particular with our girls. We must be. Society would be scandalized if they went about in the free-and-easy fashion of their American cousins. But with married women it is quite different. We are really _free_--more free, I think, than your countrywomen; and as for _friendship_--dear me, that is quite allowable--quite!" "Of course," chime in several voices in the background, for all the attention of the conclave is aroused now. "But then there are friendships, _and_ friendships." "Exactly," says Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe drily. "It is the '_and_' ones I mean. How is it you know so well who may not look at the halter, and who may steal the horse?" "It is--it is somewhat difficult to explain," hesitates the pretty fair woman, who has a charming "friendship" of her own on hand just now, and is anxious it should be considered as blameless as, of course, it is. Mrs. Bradshaw Woollffe laughs loudly. "I surmise it is," she answers, "something like the people one can't know and the people one can. I suppose as long as one's got a pretty big pile, one can do anything." "But to return to Mr. Athelstone," says Belgravia, a little uncomfortably. "Don't you really know when he'll come back?" "Perhaps I do," answers Mrs. Woollffe, with an odd little smile. "He's just promised to come and stay with me the end of the month. I have a niece--a very pretty girl she is, too--coming over from N' York, and as they knew each other in Amurca, I thought it would be company like for them to be together." Horror and consternation fill the heart of the Belgravian matron. The prospects of her two daughters who are "out," and the blushing _ingénue_ in prospective, flee further and further back into the regions of disappointment.