in his own mind that he would take the step matrimonial,—­the step from the sublime to—­well, not always the ridiculous.  With this resolution he naturally thought that the greatest obstacle to success had been removed; but he was soon disillusionized.  He had already come to see that American girls were very much in the habit of being gracious to everybody, and saying pretty and pleasant things, with no thought of an hereafter; also that they did not live with St. George’s, Hanover Square, or its American equivalent, Trinity Church, New York, stamped on the mental retina.  Miss Bascombe was “very nice” to him, he told himself, but she was quite as nice to a dozen other men.  She was uniformly kind, courteous, agreeable, to every one who came to the house.  Her cordiality to him meant nothing whatever.  Yes, he was quite free,—­free as air; he saw that plainly, and perversely longed to assume the fetters he had so long and so skilfully avoided.  What was the use of having serious intentions when not the slightest notice was taken of the most compromising behavior?  It was true that he was perfectly at liberty to see more of Edith than an Englishman ever does of any woman not related to him, and to say and do a thousand things any one of which at home would have necessitated a proposal or instant flight.  But no importance whatever seemed to be attached to them here, and he was utterly at a loss how to make his seriousness felt.  Yet it was quite clear that if there was to be any wooing done, he would have to do it,—­go every step of the way himself, with no assistance from Miss Bascombe.  “How on earth am I to show her that I care for her?” he thought.  “Other men send her dozens of bouquets, and box after box of expensive sweets, and loads of books, and music without end, and they come to see her continually, and take her about everywhere, and are entirely devoted to her.  I wonder what fellows over here do when they are serious?  How do they make themselves understood when they go on in this way habitually?  It is a most extraordinary state of affairs!  And neither party seems to feel in the least compromised by it.  There is that fellow Clinch, who fairly lives at the Bascombes’, and when I asked her if she was engaged to him she said, ’Engaged to George Clinch?  What an idea! No.  What put that in your head?  He is a nice fellow, and I like him immensely, but there’s nothing of that sort between us.  What made you think there was?  And when I explained, she said, ’Oh, that’s nothing!  He is just as nice to lots of other girls.’  And when I suggested to him that he was attached to her, he said, ’Edith Bascombe?  Oh, no!  She is a great friend of mine, and a charming girl, but I have never thought of that, nor has she.  I go there a good deal, but I have never paid her any marked attention.’  No marked attention, indeed!  Nothing seems to mean anything here:  it is worse than being in England, where everything means something.  No, it isn’t, either.