Gertrude gave a smile and a little nod, and went quickly out of the room.  Presently she came back with a very large decanter in one hand and a plate in the other, on which was placed a big, round cake with a frosted top.  Gertrude, in taking the cake from the closet, had had a moment of acute consciousness that it composed the refection of which her sister had thought that Mr. Brand would like to partake.  Her kinsman from across the seas was looking at the pale, high-hung engravings.  When she came in he turned and smiled at her, as if they had been old friends meeting after a separation.  “You wait upon me yourself?” he asked.  “I am served like the gods!” She had waited upon a great many people, but none of them had ever told her that.  The observation added a certain lightness to the step with which she went to a little table where there were some curious red glasses—­glasses covered with little gold sprigs, which Charlotte used to dust every morning with her own hands.  Gertrude thought the glasses very handsome, and it was a pleasure to her to know that the wine was good; it was her father’s famous madeira.  Felix Young thought it excellent; he wondered why he had been told that there was no wine in America.  She cut him an immense triangle out of the cake, and again she thought of Mr. Brand.  Felix sat there, with his glass in one hand and his huge morsel of cake in the other—­eating, drinking, smiling, talking.  “I am very hungry,” he said.  “I am not at all tired; I am never tired.  But I am very hungry.”

“You must stay to dinner,” said Gertrude.  “At two o’clock.  They will all have come back from church; you will see the others.”

“Who are the others?” asked the young man.  “Describe them all.”

“You will see for yourself.  It is you that must tell me; now, about your sister.”

“My sister is the Baroness Munster,” said Felix.

On hearing that his sister was a Baroness, Gertrude got up and walked about slowly, in front of him.  She was silent a moment.  She was thinking of it.  “Why did n’t she come, too?” she asked.

“She did come; she is in Boston, at the hotel.”

“We will go and see her,” said Gertrude, looking at him.

“She begs you will not!” the young man replied.  “She sends you her love; she sent me to announce her.  She will come and pay her respects to your father.”

Gertrude felt herself trembling again.  A Baroness Munster, who sent a brilliant young man to “announce” her; who was coming, as the Queen of Sheba came to Solomon, to pay her “respects” to quiet Mr. Wentworth—­such a personage presented herself to Gertrude’s vision with a most effective unexpectedness.  For a moment she hardly knew what to say.  “When will she come?” she asked at last.

“As soon as you will allow her—­to-morrow.  She is very impatient,” answered Felix, who wished to be agreeable.

“To-morrow, yes,” said Gertrude.  She wished to ask more about her; but she hardly knew what could be predicated of a Baroness Munster.  “Is she—­is she—­married?”