and she took up the cudgels for the old curmudgeon, as King called him, and declared that, when all was said, Mrs. Carlyle was happier with him than she would have been with any other man in England.  “What woman of spirit wouldn’t rather mate with an eagle, and quarrel half the time, than with a humdrum barn-yard fowl?” And Mr. Stanhope King, when he went away, reflected that he who had fitted himself for the bar, and traveled extensively, and had a moderate competence, hadn’t settled down to any sort of career.  He had always an intention of doing something in a vague way; but now the thought that he was idle made him for the first time decidedly uneasy, for he had an indistinct notion that Irene couldn’t approve of such a life.

This feeling haunted him as he was making a round of calls that day.  He did not return to lunch or dinner—­if he had done so he would have found that lunch was dinner and that dinner was supper—­another vital distinction between the hotel and the cottage.  The rest of the party had gone to the cliffs with the artist, the girls on a pretense of learning to sketch from nature.  Mr. King dined with his cousin.

“You are a bad boy, Stanhope,” was the greeting of Mrs. Bartlett Glow, “not to come to me.  Why did you go to the hotel?”

“Oh, I thought I’d see life; I had an unaccountable feeling of independence.  Besides, I’ve a friend with me, a very clever artist, who is re-seeing his country after an absence of some years.  And there are some other people.”

“Oh, yes.  What is her name?”

“Why, there is quite a party.  We met them at different places.  There’s a very bright New York girl, Miss Lamont, and her uncle from Richmond.”  ("Never heard of her,” interpolated Mrs. Glow.) “And a Mr. and Mrs. Benson and their daughter, from Ohio.  Mr. Benson has made money; Mrs. Benson, good-hearted old lady, rather plain and—­”

“Yes, I know the sort; had a falling-out with Lindley Murray in her youth and never made it up.  But what I want to know is about the girl.  What makes you beat about the bush so?  What’s her name?”

“Irene.  She is an uncommonly clever girl; educated; been abroad a good deal, studying in Germany; had all advantages; and she has cultivated tastes; and the fact is that out in Cyrusville—­that is where they live —­You know how it is here in America when the girl is educated and the old people are not—­”

“The long and short of it is, you want me to invite them here.  I suppose the girl is plain, too—­takes after her mother?”

“Not exactly.  Mr. Forbes—­that’s my friend—­says she’s a beauty.  But if you don’t mind, Penelope, I was going to ask you to be a little civil to them.”

“Well, I’ll admit she is handsome—­a very striking-looking girl.  I’ve seen them driving on the Avenue day after day.  Now, Stanhope, I don’t mind asking them here to a five o’clock; I suppose the mother will have to come.  If she was staying with somebody here it would be easier.  Yes, I’ll do it to oblige you, if you will make yourself useful while you are here.  There are some girls I want you to know, and mind, my young friend, that you don’t go and fall in love with a country girl whom nobody knows, out of the set.  It won’t be comfortable.”