“Oh, I know,” said the girl. “At lunch he was talking about you--what a great painter you are--how rapidly you, though an American, were making yourself famous in Europe. We didn’t dream he was talking of you. He pronounces your name peculiarly.” “I’m enormously hungry,” said Roger. “Where do these people come from? I had no idea this was such a fashionable neighborhood.” “Oh, they’re stopping in the house. Most of them came last night and to-day.” Roger ate and listened to the girl on his left--Alicia Kinnear, the tennis player. Mrs. Richmond had Count d’Artois on her right, and he talked steadily of “Vahd.” She listened sourly and from time to time shot a glance down the table at him--the glance of the alarmed and angry mother of a rather unmanageable heiress. Peter--directly opposite Roger--was as silent as he, but instead of covering his silence with appreciation of the Richmond chef he stared at the lace insertion of the tablecloth and crumbled and messed his roll. Beatrice was the happiest of the thirty-two at that table. She was radiant, ecstatic. “Aren’t you going to say a single word to _me_?” she inquired of Roger when he had finished the game course. “You can’t still be ravenously hungry.” “I’ve eaten too much,” replied he. “I’m stupid.” “It really doesn’t matter, as I’ll see you to-morrow morning.” “I’m not working to-morrow. I’ve got to go to town.” “Then the day after?” “I may stay in town several days.” Her expression was so hurt, so depressed, that he felt guilty, mean. “It’s terribly hard to be friends with you, isn’t it?” said she. “Because I refuse to spend my time idling about? You must choose your friends in your own class. No good ever comes of going out of it.” “I’m surprised at _your_ talking about classes in this country.” “There are classes everywhere--and always will be. A class simply means a group of people of similar sympathies, tastes, habits and means.” “Means!” said she. “I was under the impression you despised money!” “I?” He laughed. “No more than I despise food. Money is a kind of food. I want--and I try to get--all of it I need. My appetite is larger than some, smaller than others. I take--or try to take--in proportion to my appetite.” She nodded thoughtfully. It was in a queer, hesitating voice that she went on to ask: “And you really don’t care to be rich?” “No more than I want to be fat. And I want to be poor no more than I want to be emaciated.” Again she reflected. Suddenly she asked: “Do you like this house?” “Certainly. It is beautiful of its kind.” “I mean, wouldn’t _you_ like to have such a house?” “God forbid!” said he, and she knew he was speaking sincerely. “I’ve other things to do in my brief life than take care of property.” “But one can hire those things done.”