And thus it transpired that Freddie Ulstervelt—­addlepated, good-looking, inconstant Freddie, just out of college—­was transformed into a bone of contention, whether he would or no.

He was of the kind who love or make love to every new girl they meet, seriously enough at the time, but easily passed over if need be.  Rebuffs may have puzzled him, but they left no jagged scar.  He belonged to that class which upsets the tranquillity of inexperienced maidens by whispering intensely, “God, it’s grand!” And he means it at the moment.

Katherine Rodney was in love with him.  He belonged to a fashionable New York family of wealth, and he had been a young lion at Pasadena during the winter just past.  He owned automobiles and a yacht and—­an extensive wardrobe.  These notable assets had much to do with the conquest of Mrs. Rodney:  she looked with favour upon the transitory Mr. Ulstervelt, and believed in her heart that he had something to do with the location of the shining sun.  But of this affair more anon, as the novelists say.

Brock was presented to the Rodneys just before the party went in to dinner.  He managed his eyeglass and his drawl bravely, and got on swimmingly with the elder Rodneys, until Constance appeared with Katherine and Freddie Ulstervelt.  It was not until then that it occurred to Miss Fowler that Freddie, being from New York, was almost certain to know Brock either personally or by sight.  She experienced a cold chill, the distinct approach of catastrophe.  Brock had just been told that young Ulstervelt of New York was to be of the party.  His blood ran cold.  He had never seen the young man, but he knew his father well; he had even dined at the mansion in Madison Avenue.  There was every reason, however, to suspect that Freddie knew him by sight.  Even as he was planning a mode of defence in case of recognition, the young man was presented.  Brock’s drawl was something wonderful.

“I—­aw—­knew your family, I’m sure—­aw, quite sure,” he said.  “You know, of course, that I lived in your—­aw—­delightful city for some years.  Strange we never met, ’pon my soul.”

“Oh, New York’s a pretty big place, Mr. Medcroft,” said Freddie good-naturedly.  He was a slight young fellow with a fresh, inquisitive face.  “It’s bigger than London in some ways.  It’s bigger upwards.  Say, do you know, you remind me of a fellow I knew in New York!”

“Haw, haw!” laughed Brock, without grace or reason.  Miss Fowler caught her breath sharply.

“Fellow named Brock.  Stupid sort of chap, my mother says.  I—­”

“Oh, dear me, Mr. Ulstervelt,” cried Edith, breaking in, “you shan’t say anything mean about Mr. Brock.  He’s my husband’s best friend.”

“I didn’t say it, Mrs. Medcroft.  It was my mother.”  Brock was hiding a smile behind his hand.  “She knows him better than I. To tell the truth, I’ve never met him, but I’ve seen him on the Fifth Avenue stages.  You do look like him, though, by Jove.”