“My dear Miss Cosslit,” Mr. Kinosling responded, again waving his hand and watching it, “I am entirely at your disposal.”

“Was Joan of Arc,” she asked fervently, “inspired by spirits?”

He smiled indulgently.  “Yes—­and no,” he said.  “One must give both answers.  One must give the answer, yes; one must give the answer, no.”

“Oh, thank you!” said Miss Cosslit, blushing.

“She’s one of my great enthusiasms, you know.”

“And I have a question, too,” urged Mrs. Lora Rewbush, after a moment’s hasty concentration. “’I’ve never been able to settle it for myself, but now——­”

“Yes?” said Mr. Kinosling encouragingly.

“Is—­ah—­is—­oh, yes:  Is Sanskrit a more difficult language than Spanish, Mr. Kinosling?”

“It depends upon the student,” replied the oracle smiling.  “One must not look for linguists everywhere.  In my own especial case—­if one may cite one’s self as an example—­I found no great, no insurmountable difficulty in mastering, in conquering either.”

“And may I ask one?” ventured Mrs. Bassett.  “Do you think it is right to wear egrets?”

“There are marks of quality, of caste, of social distinction,” Mr. Kinosling began, “which must be permitted, allowed, though perhaps regulated.  Social distinction, one observes, almost invariably implies spiritual distinction as well.  Distinction of circumstances is accompanied by mental distinction.  Distinction is hereditary; it descends from father to son, and if there is one thing more true than ‘Like father, like son,’ it is—­” he bowed gallantly to Mrs. Bassett—­“it is, ‘Like mother, like son.’  What these good ladies have said this afternoon of your——­”

This was the fatal instant.  There smote upon all ears the voice of Georgie, painfully shrill and penetrating—­fraught with protest and protracted, strain.  His plain words consisted of the newly sanctioned and disinfected curse with a big H.

With an ejaculation of horror, Mrs. Bassett sprang to the window and threw open the blinds.

Georgie’s back was disclosed to the view of the tea-party.  He was endeavouring to ascend a maple tree about twelve feet from the window.  Embracing the trunk with arms and legs, he had managed to squirm to a point above the heads of Penrod and Herman, who stood close by, watching him earnestly—­Penrod being obviously in charge of the performance.  Across the yard were Sam Williams and Maurice Levy, acting as a jury on the question of voice-power, and it was to a complaint of theirs that Georgie had just replied.

“That’s right, Georgie,” said Penrod encouragingly.  “They can, too, hear you.  Let her go!”

“Going to heaven!” shrieked Georgie, squirming up another inch.  “Going to heaven, heaven, heaven!”

His mother’s frenzied attempts to attract his attention failed utterly.  Georgie was using the full power of his lungs, deafening his own ears to all other sounds.  Mrs. Bassett called in vain; while the tea-party stood petrified in a cluster about the window.