Deppingham’s wrath did not really explode until the two were gazing open-mouthed upon Robert Browne and his wife and his maidservants and his ass—­for that was the name which his lordship subsequently applied, with no moderation, to the unfortunate gentleman who served as Mr. Browne’s attorney.  The Americans were being swiftly, cozily carried to their new home in litters of oriental comfort and elegance, fanned vigorously from both sides by eager boys.  First came the Brownes, eager-faced, bright-eyed, alert young people, far better looking than their new enemies could conscientiously admit under the circumstances; then the lawyer from the States; then a pert young lady in a pink shirt waist and a sailor hat; then two giggling, utterly un-English maids—­and all of them lolling in luxurious ease.  The red jacket was conspicuously absent.

It is not to be wondered at that his lordship looked at his wife, gulped in sympathy, and then said something memorable.

Almost before they could realise what had happened the newcomers were chattering in the spacious halls below, tramping about the rooms, and giving orders in high, though apparently efficacious voices.  Trunks rattled about the place, barefooted natives shuffled up and down the corridors and across the galleries, quick American heels clattered on the marble stairways; and all this time the English occupants sat in cold silence, despising the earth and all that therein dwelt.

Mr. and Mrs. Browne evidently believed in the democratic first principles of their native land:  they did not put themselves above their fellow-man.  Close at their heels trooped the servants, all of whom took part in the discussion incident to fresh discoveries.  At last they came upon the great balcony, pausing just outside the French windows to exclaim anew in their delight.

“Great!” said the lawyer man, after a full minute.  He was not at all like Mr. Saunders, who looked on from an obscure window in the distant left.  “Finest I’ve ever seen.  Isn’t it a picture, Browne?”

“Glorious,” said young Mr. Browne, taking a long breath.  The Deppinghams, sitting unobserved, saw that he was a tall, good-looking fellow.  They were unconscionably amused when he suddenly reached out and took his wife’s hand in his big fingers.  Her face was flushed with excitement, her eyes were wide and sparkling.  She was very trim and cool-looking in her white duck; moreover, she was of the type that looks exceedingly attractive in evening dress—­at least, that was Deppingham’s innermost reflection.  It was not until after many weeks had passed, however, that Lady Agnes admitted that Brasilia Browne was a very pretty young woman.

“Most American women are, after a fashion,” she then confessed to Deppingham, and not grudgingly.

“What does Baedeker say about it, Bobby?” asked Mrs. Browne.  Her voice was very soft and full—­the quiet, well-modulated Boston voice and manner.