“I’ll handle ’em, Mr. Crewe,” he said; “a little brains’ll start ’em goin’.  Come along here, Mr. Wright, and I’ll show you the best cows this side of the Hudson Riverall pedigreed prize winners.  Hello, Aust, you take hold and get the wimmen-folks interested in the cabinets.  You know where they are.”

“There’s a person with some sense,” remarked Mrs. Pomfret, who had been at a little distance among a group of summer-resident ladies and watching the affair with shining eyes.  “I’ll help.  Come, Edith; come, Victoria where’s Victoria?—­and dear Mrs. Chillingham.  We American women are so deplorably lacking in this kind of experience.  Alice, take some of the women into the garden.  I’m going to interest that dear, benevolent man who looks so helpless, and doing his best to have a good time.”

The dear, benevolent man chanced to be Mr. Job Braden, who was standing somewhat apart with his hands in his pockets.  He did not move as Mrs. Pomfret approached him, holding her glasses to her eyes.

“How are you?” exclaimed that lady, extending a white-gloved hand with a cordiality that astonished her friends.  “It is so pleasant to see you here, Mr.—­Mr.—­”

“How be you?” said Mr. Braden, taking her fingers in the gingerly manner he would have handled one of Mr. Crewe’s priceless curios.  The giraffe Mr. Barnum had once brought to Ripton was not half as interesting as this immaculate and mysterious production of foreign dressmakers and French maids, but he refrained from betraying it.  His eye rested on the lorgnette.

“Near-sighted, be you?” he inquired,—­a remark so unexpected that for the moment Mrs. Pomfret was deprived of speech.

“I manage to see better with—­with these,” she gasped, “when we get old —­you know.”

“You hain’t old,” said Mr. Braden, gallantly.  “If you be,” he added, his eye travelling up and down the Parisian curves, I wouldn’t have suspected it—­not a mite.”

“I’m afraid you are given to flattery, Mr.—­Mr.—­” she replied hurriedly.  “Whom have I the pleasure of speaking to?”

“Job Braden’s my name,” he answered, “but you have the advantage of me.”

“How?” demanded the thoroughly bewildered Mrs. Pomfret.

“I hain’t heard your name,” he said.

“Oh, I’m Mrs. Pomfret—­a very old friend of Mr. Crewe’s.  Whenever he has his friends with him, like this, I come over and help him.  It is so difficult for a bachelor to entertain, Mr. Braden.”

“Well,” said Mr. Braden, bending alarmingly near her ear, “there’s one way out of it.”

“What’s that?” said Mrs. Pomfret.

“Git married,” declared Mr. Braden.

“How very clever you are, Mr. Braden!  I wish poor dear Mr. Crewe would get married—­a wife could take so many burdens off his shoulders.  You don’t know Mr. Crewe very well, do you?”

“Callate to—­so so,” said Mr. Braden.

Mrs. Pomfret was at sea again.