and it seems to work
better when it is paid for."

"Most things do," observed Flint.

"My cousin says--"

Flint never knew exactly what Miss Wabash's cousin did say, for at
that point in the conversation his attention was irresistibly
attracted by the talk of his opposite neighbors.

"Now there's a lot in it, I'm sure," the man of the monocle was
saying, bending toward Winifred with what Flint considered
objectionable propinquity,--"telepathy, don't you know, and--and all
that sort of thing. I had no idea I was to meet you to-night, but as I
was standing on the doorstep I remembered how you looked at that
dinner out in Cheyenne, and a remark you made to me--do you
recollect?"

"The dinner, perfectly; the remark, not at all."

"Well, I sha'n't repeat it, for it was deucedly severe on the English.
Really, you know, we're not half bad; but you don't care for your
cousins over the water, I am afraid. Do you?"

"I think the cousins over the water are much like those on this
side,--the relationship is simply an opportunity for intimate
acquaintance. Some Englishmen are the most charming of their sex;
others are--well, quite the reverse."

"To which do _I_ belong?" asked the Captain, turning toward her more
openly and leaving his terrapin untasted, which meant much with
Blathwayt.

"Can you doubt?" Winifred responded with a radiant but wholly
non-committal smile. Self-possessed as she was outwardly, however, she
felt Flint's eyes upon her, and experienced a sense of annoyance at
the attitude of both men.

Her host on the other side came to her relief at the moment.

"Blathwayt," he said, leaning over, "you must try this wine. It is
some my wine-merchant in Paris sent over ten years ago,--a special
vintage,--and don't let the terrapin go by, for there's nothing else
worth while before the canvas-backs. I'll let you into the secret too,
Miss Anstice," he added with an expression closely approaching a wink.

"Thanks," said Winifred, rather wearily, "I am not an epicure."

"Oh, but you can be trained to be!" Graham answered encouragingly. "It
is mainly a question of practice, though I must say that I was born
with the taste,--inherited from my father, I believe; and I've heard
him tell how once when I was five years old I scolded the butler for
sending up the Burgundy iced."

"How precocious!" murmured Winifred.

"Well, of course, that was unusual; but if children were taken young
and had half the attention pa