“Joe is as crazy in love with her as ever, poor devil,” whispered Rolfe.  Gradually the group of gossips came closer together over the table top; the conversation was continued in more subdued tones.

“They’re discussing me, damn ’em,” said the moody young man to himself.  “I suppose they’re pitying me.  Damn cats!  But I’ll show ’em a thing or two they’re not looking for before long.”  He looked at his watch for the twentieth time in an hour and scowled at the drenched window-panes across the way.  For some reason this exceedingly nice-looking young man was in a state of extreme nervousness, a condition which, luckily for him, he was able to keep within himself.

And this was what Mrs. Scudaway was saying in an urgent undertone to the half dozen who leaned across the big table:  “Joe is a mighty good sort, and I’m sorry for him.  He’s been good enough for Eleanor Thursdale ever since she came out two years ago, and I don’t see why he should cease being good enough for her now.  This Englishman hasn’t any more money and he isn’t half as good looking.  He’s English, that’s all.  Her mother’s crazy to have a look in at some of those London functions she’s read so much about.  She’s an awful ass, don’t you think, Tommy?”

“Ya-as,” said the blase man; “such as she is.”

“Mighty hard lines, this thing of being an ordinary American,” lamented the placid bore.

“One might just as well be called Abraham or Isaac,” reflected Carter.

“No romantic young lover would live through the first chapter with either of those names,” said pretty Miss Ratliff, who read every novel that came out.

“Dauntless has been terribly out of humour for the past week or two,” said Carter.  “He’s horribly cut up over the affair,—­grouchy as blazes, and flocks by himself all the time.  That’s not like him, either.”

“He’s the sweetest boy I know,” commented little Mrs. Tanner, whose husband had barked about the midiron.

“I’ve heard he’s the only man you ever really loved,” murmured Rolfe, close to her ear.

“Nonsense!  I’ve known him all my life,” she replied, with quick and suspicious resentment.

“Trite phrase,” scoffed he.  “I’ll wager my head that every woman living has uttered that same worn expression a hundred times.  ’Known him all my life!’ Ha, ha!  It’s a stock apology, my dear.  Women, good and bad, trade under that flag.  Please, to oblige me, get a fresh excuse.”

“The most ignorant duffer in the world could lay you a stymie if—–­” the loud-voiced golfer was complaining just at that instant.  The man he was addressing was nodding his head politely and at the same time trying to hear what was being said at the round table.

“Joe Dauntless is good enough for anybody’s daughter,” vouchsafed the blase man in corduroys.

“He’s a ripping good fellow,” again said Mrs. Scudaway.

“Mrs. Thursdale’s got an English governess for her kids, an English butler, an English bull terrier, and a new Cobden-Sanderson binding on that antique History of England she talks so much about,” observed Carter.