The face of Fairfield grew suddenly sober.
"Come, Jack," he said, rising, "that's too stupid a joke to be worthy of you."
He was seized at that moment by Mrs. Harbinger, who presented him to Miss Wentstile. Fairfield had been presented to Miss Wentstile a dozen times in the course of the two winters since he had graduated at Harvard and settled in Boston; but since she never seemed to recognize him, he gave no sign of remembering her.
"Miss Wentstile," the hostess said, "don't you know Mr. Fairfield? He is one of our literary lights now, you know."
"A very tiny rushlight, I am afraid," the young man commented.
Miss Wentstile examined him with critical impertinence through her lorgnette.
"Are you one of the Baltimore Fairfields?" she asked.
"No; my family came from Connecticut."
"Indeed!" she remarked coolly. "I do not remember that I ever met a person from Connecticut before."
The lips of the young man set themselves a little more firmly at this impertinence, and there came into his eyes a keen look.