is quite another _type_,” she said; she pronounced the word in the French manner. “This is a different outline, my uncle, a different character, from that of your own daughters. This, Felix,” she went on, “is very much more what we have always thought of as the American type.”

The young girl, during this exposition, was smiling askance at everyone in turn, and at Felix out of turn. “I find only one type here!” cried Felix, laughing. “The type adorable!”

This sally was received in perfect silence, but Felix, who learned all things quickly, had already learned that the silences frequently observed among his new acquaintances were not necessarily restrictive or resentful. It was, as one might say, the silence of expectation, of modesty. They were all standing round his sister, as if they were expecting her to acquit herself of the exhibition of some peculiar faculty, some brilliant talent. Their attitude seemed to imply that she was a kind of conversational mountebank, attired, intellectually, in gauze and spangles. This attitude gave a certain ironical force to Madame Münster’s next words. “Now this is your circle,” she said to her uncle. “This is your _salon_. These are your regular _habitués_, eh? I am so glad to see you all together.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Wentworth, “they are always dropping in and out. You must do the same.”

“Father,” interposed Charlotte Wentworth, “they must do something more.” And she turned her sweet, serious face, that seemed at once timid and placid, upon their interesting visitor. “What is your name?” she asked.

“Eugenia-Camilla-Dolores,” said the Baroness, smiling. “But you needn’t say all that.”

“I will say Eugenia, if you will let me. You must come and stay with us.”

The Baroness laid her hand upon Charlotte’s arm very tenderly; but she reserved herself. She was wondering whether it would be possible to “stay” with these people. “It would be very charming—very charming,” she said; and her eyes wandered over the company, over the room. She wished to gain time before committing herself. Her glance fell upon young Mr. Brand, who stood there, with his arms folded and his hand on his chin, looking at her. “The gentleman, I suppose, is a sort of ecclesiastic,” she said to Mr. Wentworth, lowering her voice a little.

“He is a minister,” answered Mr. Wentworth.

“A Protestant?” asked Eugenia.

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