’The dinner-hour, six.  It would no doubt be full seven in Town.  I am convinced you are half-an-hour too early.  I had the post of honour to the right of Sir Franks.  Evan to the right of Lady Jocelyn.  Most fortunately he was in the best of spirits—­quite brilliant.  I saw the eyes of that sweet Rose glisten.  On the other side of me sat my pet diplomatist, and I gave him one or two political secrets which astonished him.  Of course, my dear, I was wheedled out of them.  His contempt for our weak intellects is ineffable.  But a woman must now and then ingratiate herself at the expense of her sex.  This is perfectly legitimate.  Tory policy at the table.  The Opposition, as Andrew says, not represented.  So to show that we were human beings, we differed among ourselves, and it soon became clear to me that Lady Jocelyn is the rankest of Radicals.  My secret suspicion is, that she is a person of no birth whatever, wherever her money came from.  A fine woman—­yes; still to be admired, I suppose, by some kind of men; but totally wanting in the essentially feminine attractions.

’There was no party, so to say.  I will describe the people present, beginning with the insignifacants.

’First, Mr. Parsley, the curate of Beckley.  He eats everything at table, and agrees with everything.  A most excellent orthodox young clergyman.  Except that he was nearly choked by a fish-bone, and could not quite conceal his distress—­and really Rose should have repressed her desire to laugh till the time for our retirement—­he made no sensation.  I saw her eyes watering, and she is not clever in turning it off.  In that nobody ever equalled dear Papa.  I attribute the attack almost entirely to the tightness of the white neck-cloths the young clergymen of the Established Church wear.  But, my dear, I have lived too long away from them to wish for an instant the slightest change in anything they think, say, or do.  The mere sight of this young man was most refreshing to my spirit.  He may be the shepherd of a flock, this poor Mr. Parsley, but he is a sheep to one young person.

’Mr. Drummond Forth.  A great favourite of Lady Jocelyn’s; an old friend.  He went with them to the East.  Nothing improper.  She is too cold for that.  He is fair, with regular features, very self-possessed, and ready—­your English notions of gentlemanly.  But none of your men treat a woman as a woman.  We are either angels, or good fellows, or heaven knows what that is bad.  No exquisite delicacy, no insinuating softness, mixed with respect, none of that hovering over the border, as Papa used to say, none of that happy indefiniteness of manner which seems to declare “I would love you if I might,” or “I do, but I dare not tell,” even when engaged in the most trivial attentions—­handing a footstool, remarking on the soup, etc.  You none of you know how to meet a woman’s smile, or to engage her eyes without boldness—­to slide off them, as it were, gracefully.  Evan alone can look between the eyelids of a woman.  I have had to correct him, for to me he quite exposes the state of his heart towards dearest Rose.  She listens to Mr. Forth with evident esteem.  In Portugal we do not understand young ladies having male friends.