“There are worse things in the States than the mutton,” replied Mr. Mafferton, moving his chair to enable him, by twisting his neck not too ostentatiously, to glance occasionally at Dicky and Isabel, “but the steaks were distinctly better than the chops—­distinctly.”

“So all connoisseurs say,” I replied respectfully.  “Would you like to change seats with me?  I don’t mind sitting with my back to—­Vesuvius.”

Mr. Mafferton blushed—­unless it was the glow from the volcano.

“Not on my account,” he said.  “By any means.”

“You do not fear a demonstration,” I suggested.  “And yet the forces of nature are very uncertain.  That is your English nerve.  It deserves all that is said of it.”

Mr. Mafferton looked at me suspiciously.

“I fancy you must be joking,” he said.

He sometimes complained that the great bar to his observation of the American character was the American sense of humour.  It was one of the things he had made a note of, as interfering with the intelligent stranger’s enjoyment of the country.

“I suppose,” I replied reproachfully, “you never pause to think how unkind a suspicion like that is?  When one wishes to be taken seriously.”

“I fear I do not,” Mr. Mafferton confessed.  “Perhaps I jump rather hastily to conclusions sometimes.  It’s a family trait.  We get it through the Warwick-Howards on my mother’s side.”

“Then, of course, there can’t be any objection to it.  But when one knows a person’s opinion of frivolity, always to be thought frivolous by the person is hard to bear.  Awfully.”

And if my expression, as I gazed past this Englishman at Vesuvius, was one of sad resignation, there was nothing in the situation to exhilarate anybody.

The impassive countenance of Mr. Mafferton was disturbed by a ray of concern.  The moonlight enabled me to see it quite clearly.  “Pray, Miss Wick,” he said, “do not think that.  Who was it that wrote——­”

   “A little humour now and then
   Is relished by the wisest men.”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but there’s something about it that makes me think it is English in its origin.  Do you really endorse it?”

“Certainly I do.  And your liveliness, Miss Wick, if I may say so, is certainly one of your accomplishments.  It is to some extent a racial characteristic.  You share it with Mr. Dod.”

I glanced in the direction of the other two.  “They seem desperately bored with each other,” I said.  “They are not saying anything.  Shall we join them?”

“Dod is probably sulking because I am monopolising you.  Mrs. Portheris, you see, has let me into the secret”—­Mr. Mafferton looked very arch—­“By all means, if you think he ought to be humoured.”

“No,” I said firmly, “humouring is very bad for Dicky.  But I don’t think he should be allowed to wreak his ill-temper on Isabel.”

“I have noticed a certain lack of power to take the initiative about Miss Portheris,” said Mr. Mafferton coldly, “especially when her mother is not with her.  She seems quite unable to extricate herself from situations like the present.”