“How true that is!” murmured Mrs. John.

The brown gentleman modestly enjoyed his triumph.  With only three people had he failed—­Mr. Enwright, George, and the youngish woman next to George.

“And how’s Paris, Miss Ingram?” he pointedly asked the last.

George was surprised.  He had certainly taken her for a married woman, and one of his generalizations about life was that he did not like young married women; hence he had not liked her.  He now regarded her with fresh interest.  She blushed a little, and looked very young indeed.

“Oh!  Paris is all right!” she answered shortly.

The brown gentleman after a long, musing smile, discreetly abandoned the opening; but George, inquiring in a low voice if she lived in Paris, began a private talk with Miss Ingram, who did live in Paris.  He had his doubts about her entire agreeableness, but at any rate they got on to a natural, brusque footing, which contrasted with the somewhat ceremonious manner of the general conversation.  She exceeded George in brusqueness, and tended to patronize him as a youngster.  He noticed that she had yellow eyes.

“What do you think of his wig?” she demanded in an astonishing whisper, when the meal was over and chairs were being vacated.

“Is it a wig?” George exclaimed ingenuously.

“Oh, you boys!” she protested, with superiority.  “Of course it’s a wig.”

“But how do you know it’s a wig?” George insisted stoutly.

“‘Is it a wig!’” she scorned him.

“Well, I’m not up in wigs,” said George.  “Who is he, anyhow?”

“I forget his name.  I’ve only met him once, here at tea.  I think he’s a tea-merchant.  He seemed to remember me all right.”

“A tea-merchant!  I wonder why Mrs. John put him on her right, then, and Mr. Enwright on her left.”  George resented the precedence.

“Is Mr. Enwright really very great, then?”

“Great!  You bet he is....  I was in Paris with him in the summer.  Whereabouts do you live in Paris?”

She improved, especially at the point where she said that Mr. Enwright’s face was one of the most wonderful faces that she had ever seen.  Evidently she knew Paris as well as George knew London.  Apparently she had always lived there.  But their interchanges concerning Paris, on a sofa in the drawing-room, were stopped by a general departure.  Mr. Enwright began it.  The tea-merchant instantly supported the movement.  Miss Ingram herself rose.  The affair was at an end.  Nothing interesting had been said in the general talk, and little that was sincere.  No topic had been explored, no argument taken to a finish.  No wit worth mentioning had glinted.  But everybody had behaved very well, and had demonstrated that he or she was familiar with the usages of society and with aspects of existence with which it was proper to be familiar.  And everybody—­even Mr. Enwright—­thanked Mrs. John most heartily for her quite delightful luncheon; Mrs. John insisted warmly on her own pleasure and her appreciation of her guests’ extreme good nature in troubling to come, and she was beyond question joyously triumphant.  And George, relieved, thought, as he tried to rival the rest in gratitude to Mrs. John: