Garnett, in spite of himself, smiled at this revised version of his hostess’s frequent assertion that Hermione was too goody-goody to take in England, but that with her little dowdy air she might very well “go off” in the Faubourg if only a dot could be raked up for her—­and the recollection flashed a new light on the versatility of Mrs. Newell’s genius.

“But how did you do it—?” was on the tip of his tongue; and he had barely time to give the query the more conventional turn of:  “How did it happen?”

“Oh, we were up at Glaish with the Edmund Fitzarthurs.  Lady Edmund is a sort of cousin of the Morningfields’, who have a shooting-lodge near Glaish—­a place called Portlow—­and young Trayas was there with them.  Lady Edmund, who is a dear, drove Hermy over to Portlow, and the thing was done in no time.  He simply fell over head and ears in love with her.  You know Hermy is really very handsome in her peculiar way.  I don’t think you have ever appreciated her,” Mrs. Newell summed up with a note of exquisite reproach.

“I’ve appreciated her, I assure you; but one somehow didn’t think of her marrying—­so soon.”

“Soon?  She’s three-and-twenty; but you’ve no imagination,” said Mrs. Newell; and Garnett inwardly admitted that he had not enough to soar to the heights of her invention.  For the marriage, of course, was an invention of her own, a superlative stroke of business, in which he was sure the principal parties had all been passive agents, in which everyone, from the bankrupt and disreputable Fitzarthurs to the rich and immaculate Morningfields, had by some mysterious sleight of hand been made to fit into Mrs. Newell’s designs.  But it was not enough for Garnett to marvel at her work—­he wanted to understand it, to take it apart, to find out how the trick had been done.  It was true that Mrs. Newell had always said Hermy might go off in the Faubourg if she had a dot—­but even Mrs. Newell’s juggling could hardly conjure up a dot: such feats as she was able to perform in this line were usually made to serve her own urgent necessities.  And besides, who was likely to take sufficient interest in Hermione to supply her with the means of marrying a French nobleman?  The flowers ordered in advance by the Woolsey Hubbards’ courier made Garnett wonder if that accomplished functionary had also wired over to have Miss Newell’s settlements drawn up.  But of all the comments hovering on his lips the only one he could decently formulate was the remark that he supposed Mrs. Newell and her daughter had come over to see the young man’s family and make the final arrangements.

“Oh, they’re made—­everything is settled,” said Mrs. Newell, looking him squarely in the eye.  “You’re wondering, of course, about the dot—­Frenchmen never go off their heads to the extent of forgetting that; or at least their parents don’t allow them to.”