of course.  It was pleasant, when she looked across the table, to meet Ralph’s grey eyes, with that new look in them, and to feel that she had kindled it; but I it was only part of her larger pleasure in the general homage to her beauty, in the sensations of interest and curiosity excited by everything about her, from the family portraits overhead to the old Dagonet silver on the table—­which were to be hers too, after all!

The talk, as at Mrs. Fairford’s, confused her by its lack of the personal allusion, its tendency to turn to books, pictures and politics.  “Politics,” to Undine, had always been like a kind of back-kitchen to business—­the place where the refuse was thrown and the doubtful messes were brewed.  As a drawing-room topic, and one to provoke disinterested sentiments, it had the hollowness of Fourth of July orations, and her mind wandered in spite of the desire to appear informed and competent.

Old Mr. Dagonet, with his reedy staccato voice, that gave polish and relief to every syllable, tried to come to her aid by questioning her affably about her family and the friends she had made in New York.  But the caryatid-parent, who exists simply as a filial prop, is not a fruitful theme, and Undine, called on for the first time to view her own progenitors as a subject of conversation, was struck by their lack of points.  She had never paused to consider what her father and mother were “interested” in, and, challenged to specify, could have named—­with sincerity—­only herself.  On the subject of her New York friends it was not much easier to enlarge; for so far her circle had grown less rapidly than she expected.  She had fancied Ralph’s wooing would at once admit her to all his social privileges; but he had shown a puzzling reluctance to introduce her to the Van Degen set, where he came and went with such familiarity; and the persons he seemed anxious to have her know—­a few frumpy “clever women” of his sister’s age, and one or two brisk old ladies in shabby houses with mahogany furniture and Stuart portraits—­did not offer the opportunities she sought.

“Oh, I don’t know many people yet—­I tell Ralph he’s got to hurry up and take me round,” she said to Mr. Dagonet, with a side-sparkle for Ralph, whose gaze, between the flowers and lights, she was aware of perpetually drawing.

“My daughter will take you—­you must know his mother’s friends,” the old gentleman rejoined while Mrs. Marvell smiled noncommittally.

“But you have a great friend of your own—­the lady who takes you into society,” Mr. Dagonet pursued; and Undine had the sense that the irrepressible Mabel was again “pushing in.”

“Oh, yes—­Mabel Lipscomb.  We were school-mates,” she said indifferently.

“Lipscomb?  Lipscomb?  What is Mr. Lipscomb’s occupation?”

“He’s a broker,” said Undine, glad to be able to place her friend’s husband in so handsome a light.  The subtleties of a professional classification unknown to Apex had already taught her that in New York it is more distinguished to be a broker than a dentist; and she was surprised at Mr. Dagonet’s lack of enthusiasm.