And he had found instead of this imaginary Patty a woman of the world, unmoved by his presence, irresponsive to his generosity, unconscious of her own shortcomings, unremorseful for the past, in fact, forgetful of it and of him; who, with cool insolence, overlooked his outstretched hand, and, with the well-bred impertinence of her class, made plain her indifference to him. Well, and was he not right when he told Esther Newbold that he would not consent again to play the fool to a woman's vanity? Had he not read aright Miss Hildreth's character when she scorned him ten years ago, and withdrew her love, because of his poverty and his bucolic indifference to the petits soins of her every-day life? Had he judged her too harshly? No; a thousand times no! Her character was but in bud then, and he had only too well foreseen how bitter would be the blossom, though so fair in outward seeming.
Ah, well! Let the dream vanish, the vision fade! He had been but allured by the Lorelei of desire, and, however near he had approached to the scorching flame of her seductions, he had come forth unscathed.
His meditations were here interrupted by a touch on his shoulder, and George Newbold's pleasant voice in his ear.
"I say, Tremain, I want to introduce some one to you——. Oh, no, my good fellow, not a woman; I am too much your friend to betray you in such a fashion. It's a man for whom I bespeak your politeness—a man, and not a brother, since he is a foreigner."
Mr. Newbold, after this, for him, very long speech, stopped to take breath, and, as he did so, patted Philip affectionately on the shoulder.
"There he is," he continued, presently, moving Mr. Tremain about, and motioning towards the crowd that still surrounded the spot where sat Patricia. "Don't you see him? Tall, dark man, pasty face and black eyes, wears a red ribbon in his button-hole that fetches all the women—there, bending over Miss Hildreth! By Jove! he's scarcely left her side since I presented him. She's a witch, is Miss Patty—a witch, with a long head, and minus a broomstick."
"Who is he?" asked Philip, not particularly impressed by the stranger's appearance. "Where on earth did you pick him up, and what the devil made you bring him down here?"
"He picked me up, don't you see?" replied George Newbold, not in the least put out by Philip's evident bad temper. "Found him at the Club—the Union, you know. Townsend had introduced him, and made him a stranger member. He brought a line of introduction to Townsend from Jim Goelet, who knew him in Paris. Townsend said he had been asking for me—knew my name, he said, from hearing the Goelets speak of me so often—awfully kind of Jim and Ada, I'm sure—so he wanted to know me, and I couldn't do less than be civil, so I asked him down for the theatricals—my birthday, you know—and he leaped at my fly at once, so here he is."
"I don't like him," said Mr. Tremain, didactically. "What's his name, Newbold, and where does he hail from?"
"Here's his card," replied George, pulling it out of his waistcoat-pocket. "I thought I had better be sure about it because of introducing him, you know. The women do get so savage when you leave a fellow's patronymic vague. Bless them, the dears! They've got their 'Almanach de Gotha' at their fingers' ends, and know to a fraction's nicety just how cordial they should be to each individual mother's son of them. So many smiles and graciousness to the elder son of a peer, so many less to an Honourable, and so many less again to a younger detrimental. The women of this country, my dear Tremain, are mad, simply mad over titles. It's the irony of history. What our forefathers fought and died for—equality, and the abolishment of mere hereditary rights—their grandchildren fall down and worship. For my part, I wonder the stern old Puritans don't turn in their graves with horror!"