A sudden and painful change took place about midsummer in Claude’s manner toward me (with Evelyn it was uniform).  He became cold, restrained, embarrassed in his intercourse with me, hitherto so frank and brotherly.  He made his visits shorter and at last at greater intervals; yet I knew, through others, that he remained strictly at home, eschewing all places of amusement, all society—­“all occupation even,” as Mr. Basil Bainrothe himself complained.

“I can’t think what has got into Claude lately,” he said to my father one day at our dinner-table.  “The boy mopes.  He is in love, I believe, but with whom I can’t conjecture,” and he glanced askance at Evelyn and me.—­“Can you assist me, ladies?”

“Not with me, I assure you,” said Evelyn, proudly.  “That measure has been trodden, and the dance is over.”

“Nor with me,” I faltered, for the careless words had struck to my heart.  “That fancy dance has yet to be solicited.  We both plead innocent, you see, Mr. Bainrothe,” and I tried to laugh, but the glittering, kaleidoscopic eye was fixed upon me, and my face was crimson.

“Never blush, Miriam,” whispered Evelyn, maliciously, “it makes you look the color of a new mahogany bedstead.  You are best pale, child.  Always remember that.”

“It must be with Miss Stanbury, then,” said Mr. Bainrothe, evasively.  “She is a very pretty girl, and I don’t wonder at Claude’s infatuation.  The old man is rich, too; it will answer very well, I think.  What do you say, Mr. Monfort.”

“Well, really, I think Claude could scarcely do better,” rejoined my ever literal father.  “She is an admirable young person, pious, and discreetly brought up—­and—­yes, quite pretty, certainly.  Let us drink to his success in that quarter.—­Ladies!—­Mr. Bainrothe!—­fill your glasses.—­Franklin, the sherry.—­Morton, the port.  Which will you have, Bainrothe? or do you prefer Rhine wines?”

“A glass of Hockheimer, if you have it convenient, Franklin.  Those heavy wines are too heating for our summers, I think, Mr. Monfort.  You yourself would do well to follow my example.”

“Thank you,” said my father, loftily.  “When you feed lions on pound-cake you may expect to see Englishmen drink German acidulations instead of the generous juice of the grape—­fostered on southern soil, above volcanoes even—­to which they have been used since the time of the last Henrys.  Beer were a better alternative.  Give me claret or madeira.”

Mr. Bainrothe had his limits, and usually took care not to exceed them.  My father’s easy good-nature was converted into frozen hauteur at any open effort to transcend the boundaries of his independence.  He gloried in “Magna Charta,” and never knowingly sacrificed his baronial privileges, yet he was wax in the hands of a skillful wheedler, and his “adamantine will” was readily fused in the fires of flattery.

We drank the proposed toast, much to Mr. Bainrothe’s discomfiture.  He had made the remark as a skillful feeler, and was mortified at my father’s ready acquiescence in his plans.  Of course, Evelyn and I both saw through the unskillful ruse, and pledged him with hearty malice; but he had yet another shot in reserve, which told with fatal effect.