position in this novel setting. He said to himself that it
was all right. Old Lady Plowden had seemed to like him
from the start. The genial, if somewhat abstracted,
motherliness of her welcome had been, indeed, his sheet
anchor throughout the evening. She had not once failed
to nod her head and smile and twinkle her little kind eyes
through their spectacles at him, whenever by word or look he
had addressed her. Nor did his original half-suspicion,
that this was her manner to people in general, justify itself
upon observation. She was civil, even excessively civil,
to the other two guests, but these ladies did not get
the same eager and intent smile that he could command.
He reasoned it out that Plowden must have said something
pleasant to his mother about him--perhaps even to the point
of explaining that he was to be the architect of their
fortunes--but he did not like to ascribe all her hospitable
warmth to that. It was dear to him to believe that she
liked him on his own merits--and he did believe it,
as his softened glance rested upon her where she sat
almost facing him in her padded, wicker chair--small,
white-haired, rosy-cheeked, her intelligent face radiating
a kind of alert placidity which somehow made him feel
at home.

He had not been as much at home with the others.
The Honourable Balder, of course, didn't count; nobody paid
attention to him, and least of all a busy Rubber King.
He gave not much more heed to the American--the tall
young woman with the red hair and the million and a half
of dollars. She was plainly a visitor like himself,