anything that he thought "progressive." He thought Valentin
"progressive," thereby doing him a grave injustice.

The solid appearance of Julius K. Brayne in the room was as
decisive as a dinner bell. He had this great quality, which very
few of us can claim, that his presence was as big as his absence.
He was a huge fellow, as fat as he was tall, clad in complete
evening black, without so much relief as a watch-chain or a ring.
His hair was white and well brushed back like a German's; his face
was red, fierce and cherubic, with one dark tuft under the lower
lip that threw up that otherwise infantile visage with an effect
theatrical and even Mephistophelean. Not long, however, did that
salon merely stare at the celebrated American; his lateness had
already become a domestic problem, and he was sent with all speed
into the dining-room with Lady Galloway on his arm.

Except on one point the Galloways were genial and casual
enough. So long as Lady Margaret did not take the arm of that
adventurer O'Brien, her father was quite satisfied; and she had
not done so, she had decorously gone in with Dr. Simon.
Nevertheless, old Lord Galloway was restless and almost rude. He
was diplomatic enough during dinner, but when, over the cigars,
three of the younger men--Simon the doctor, Brown the priest,
and the detrimental O'Brien, the exile in a foreign uniform--all
melted away to mix with the ladies or smoke in the conservatory,
then the English diplomatist grew very undiplomatic indeed. He
was stung every sixty seconds with the thought that the scamp
O'Brien might be signalling to Margaret somehow; he did not
attempt to imagine how. He was left over the coffee with Brayne,
the hoary Yankee who believed in all religions, and Valentin, the