As a family we saw at a glance that America was not likely to be the poorer by one Count in spite of the way we had behaved to him.  Miss Callis, with four thousand dollars a year of her own, was going to offer them up to sustain the traditions of her country.  A Count, if she could help it, should not go a-begging more than twice.  Further impressions were lost in the shock of greeting, but it recurred to me instantly to wonder whether Miss Callis had really gone into the question of keeping a Count on that income, whether she would be able to give him all the luxuries he had been brought up in anticipation of.  It was interesting to observe the slight embarrassment with which Count Filgiatti re-encountered his earlier American vision, and his re-assurance when I gave him the bow of the most travelling of acquaintances.  Nothing was further from my thoughts than interfering.  When I considered the number of engagements upon my hands already, it made me quite faint to contemplate even an arrangimento in addition to them.

We told the Malts where we had been and they told us where they had been as well as we could across the table without seeming too confidential, and after dinner Emmeline led the way to the enclosed verandah which commanded the Falls.  “Come along, ladies and gentlemen,” said Emmeline, “and see the great big old Schaffhausen Fraud.  Performance begins at nine o’clock exactly, and no reserve seats, so unless you want to get left, Mrs. Portheris, you’d better put a hustle on.”

Miss Malt had gone through several processes of annihilation at Mrs. Portheris’s hands, and had always come out of them so much livelier than ever, that our Aunt Caroline had abandoned her to America some time previously.

“Emmeline!” exclaimed Mrs. Malt, “you are too personal.”

“She ought to be sent to the children’s table,” Mrs. Portheris remarked severely.

“Oh, that’s all right, Mrs. Portheris.  I don’t like milk puddings—­they give you a double chin.  I expect you’ve eaten a lot of ’em in your time, haven’t you, Mis’ Portheris?  Now, Mr. Mafferton, you sit here, and you, Mis’ Wick, you sit here.  That’s right, Mr. Wick, you hold up the wall.  I ain’t proud, I’ll sit on the floor—­there now, we’re every one fixed.  No, Mr. Dod, none of us ladies object to smoking—­Mis’ Portheris smokes herself, don’t you, Mis’ Portheris?”

“Emmeline, if you pass another remark to bed you go!” exclaimed her mother with unction.

“I was fourteen the day before yesterday, and you don’t send people of fourteen to bed.  I got a town lot for a birthday present.  Oh, there’s the French gentleman! Bon soir, Monsieur!  Comment va-t-il!  Attendez!” and we were suddenly bereft of Emmeline.

“She’s gone to play poker with that man from Marseilles,” remarked Mrs. Malt.  “Really, husband, I don’t know——­”

“You able to put a limit on the game?” asked poppa.