All this Mrs. Archer felt, and her son knew she felt; but he knew also that she had been perturbed by the premature announcement of his engagement, or rather by its cause; and it was for that reason—­because on the whole he was a tender and indulgent master—­that he had stayed at home that evening.  “It’s not that I don’t approve of the Mingotts’ esprit de corps; but why Newland’s engagement should be mixed up with that Olenska woman’s comings and goings I don’t see,” Mrs. Archer grumbled to Janey, the only witness of her slight lapses from perfect sweetness.

She had behaved beautifully—­and in beautiful behaviour she was unsurpassed—­during the call on Mrs. Welland; but Newland knew (and his betrothed doubtless guessed) that all through the visit she and Janey were nervously on the watch for Madame Olenska’s possible intrusion; and when they left the house together she had permitted herself to say to her son:  “I’m thankful that Augusta Welland received us alone.”

These indications of inward disturbance moved Archer the more that he too felt that the Mingotts had gone a little too far.  But, as it was against all the rules of their code that the mother and son should ever allude to what was uppermost in their thoughts, he simply replied:  “Oh, well, there’s always a phase of family parties to be gone through when one gets engaged, and the sooner it’s over the better.”  At which his mother merely pursed her lips under the lace veil that hung down from her grey velvet bonnet trimmed with frosted grapes.

Her revenge, he felt—­her lawful revenge—­would be to “draw” Mr. Jackson that evening on the Countess Olenska; and, having publicly done his duty as a future member of the Mingott clan, the young man had no objection to hearing the lady discussed in private—­except that the subject was already beginning to bore him.

Mr. Jackson had helped himself to a slice of the tepid filet which the mournful butler had handed him with a look as sceptical as his own, and had rejected the mushroom sauce after a scarcely perceptible sniff.  He looked baffled and hungry, and Archer reflected that he would probably finish his meal on Ellen Olenska.

Mr. Jackson leaned back in his chair, and glanced up at the candlelit Archers, Newlands and van der Luydens hanging in dark frames on the dark walls.

“Ah, how your grandfather Archer loved a good dinner, my dear Newland!” he said, his eyes on the portrait of a plump full-chested young man in a stock and a blue coat, with a view of a white-columned country-house behind him.  “Well—­well—­well . . .  I wonder what he would have said to all these foreign marriages!”

Mrs. Archer ignored the allusion to the ancestral cuisine and Mr. Jackson continued with deliberation:  “No, she was not at the ball.”

“Ah—­” Mrs. Archer murmured, in a tone that implied:  “She had that decency.”

“Perhaps the Beauforts don’t know her,” Janey suggested, with her artless malice.