Somehow the words made me think of poor Mr. Porterfield’s tartan, especially as Jasper Nettlepoint strolled in again at that moment.  His mother at once challenged him:  it was ten o’clock; had he by chance made up his great mind?  Apparently he failed to hear her, being in the first place surprised at the strange ladies and then struck with the fact that one of them wasn’t strange.  The young man, after a slight hesitation, greeted Miss Mavis with a handshake and a “Oh good-evening, how do you do?” He didn’t utter her name—­which I could see he must have forgotten; but she immediately pronounced his, availing herself of the American girl’s discretion to “present” him to her mother.

“Well, you might have told me you knew him all this time!” that lady jovially cried.  Then she had an equal confidence for Mrs. Nettlepoint.  “It would have saved me a worry—­an acquaintance already begun.”

“Ah my son’s acquaintances!” our hostess murmured.

“Yes, and my daughter’s too!” Mrs. Mavis gaily echoed.  “Mrs. Allen didn’t tell us you were going,” she continued to the young man.

“She’d have been clever if she had been able to!” Mrs. Nettlepoint sighed.

“Dear mother, I have my telegram,” Jasper remarked, looking at Grace Mavis.

“I know you very little,” the girl said, returning his observation.

“I’ve danced with you at some ball—­for some sufferers by something or other.”

“I think it was an inundation or a big fire,” she a little languidly smiled.  “But it was a long time ago—­and I haven’t seen you since.”

“I’ve been in far countries—­to my loss.  I should have said it was a big fire.”

“It was at the Horticultural Hall.  I didn’t remember your name,” said Grace Mavis.

“That’s very unkind of you, when I recall vividly that you had a pink dress.”

“Oh I remember that dress—­your strawberry tarletan:  you looked lovely in it!” Mrs. Mavis broke out.  “You must get another just like it—­on the other side.”

“Yes, your daughter looked charming in it,” said Jasper Nettlepoint.  Then he added to the girl:  “Yet you mentioned my name to your mother.”

“It came back to me—­seeing you here.  I had no idea this was your home.”

“Well, I confess it isn’t, much.  Oh there are some drinks!”—­he approached the tray and its glasses.

“Indeed there are and quite delicious”—­Mrs. Mavis largely wiped her mouth.

“Won’t you have another then?—­a pink one, like your daughter’s gown.”

“With pleasure, sir.  Oh do see them over,” Mrs. Mavis continued, accepting from the young man’s hand a third tumbler.

“My mother and that gentleman?  Surely they can take care of themselves,” he freely pleaded.

“Then my daughter—­she has a claim as an old friend.”

But his mother had by this time interposed.  “Jasper, what does your telegram say?”