"The real
place is Kerrimuir," he went on, and promised to give me the book.

At this Sir S. glanced our way for an instant, looked as if he
wanted to speak, changed his mind, and turned again to Mrs. West, next
whom he sat, with Mrs. James on his other side. No wonder, I thought,
he liked better to look at her than me, as she was so fresh and
elaborate and charming. All through dinner he talked to Mrs. West
and a little to Mrs. James, leaving Basil to entertain me, which he
did very kindly. Still, Sir S. seemed annoyed because a party of
young American men at a table near ours stared at me a good deal,
though he didn't care to pay me any attention himself. He drew his
eyebrows together and glared at them once, whereupon the nicest
looking of the four (and they were all good-looking) bowed. Sir S.
returned the nod stiffly, with an "I-wonder-if-I-really-_do_
know-you,-or-if-this-is-a-trick-to-claim-acquaintance?" sort of
expression.

Perhaps I ought to have been annoyed too, but I wasn't a bit. They were
_such_ nice boys, so young, and having such a glorious time! I was glad
they looked at me and not at Mrs. West, and I was sure they didn't mean
to be rude. Probably they'd seen mother, or her photographs, and were
puzzling over the resemblance which Sir S. and Basil both say is very
strong, in spite of "marked differences." Whenever we speak of her, I
feel as if I could hardly wait till Monday, though at other times the
present seems so enchanting I can't bear to have it turn into the past.

The American boys (I thought that none of them could be over twenty-one)
lingered at their table a long time after they seemed to have finished
their dinner. They played some kind of game with bent matches which made
them laugh a good deal; but the minute we got up, I heard them push back
their chairs, though I didn't turn my head.

Basil and I walked out of the dining-room after the rest of the party,
and the boys came close behind us. I heard one say in a low voice, "Did
you ever see such hair?" and I felt a sort of creep run all the way down
my plait and up again into my brain, because I've been brought up to
think red hair ugly, and it's hard to believe every one isn't making fun
of it. However, I remembered what Sir S. said about the flame-coloured
heads of the children in the road, and that stuff Basil wrote in his
notebook about Circe. Then I felt better, and hoped that the boys were
not laughing.

Outside the dining-roo