Lynde's constraint was only momentary, and the others had experienced
none. Flemming, indeed, had a fleeting surprise at finding in the aunt a
woman of thirty-five or thirty-eight, in the Indian summer of her
beauty. Lynde had given him the idea of an elderly person with
spectacles. As to Miss Denham, she had not fallen short of the mental
picture Flemming had drawn of her--which ought to have surprised him. No
charms or graces in a woman, however, could much surprise Flemming; he
accepted them as matters of course; to him all women were charming in
various degrees. He had that general susceptibility which preserves us
the breed of bachelors. The constant victim of a series of minor
emotions, he was safe from any major passion. There was a certain
chivalrous air of camaraderie in his manner to women which made them
like him sooner or later; the Denhams liked him instantly. Even before
the potage was removed, Lynde saw that his dinner was a success. "The
cook may drop dead now, if he wants to," said Lynde to himself; "he
can't spoil anything."

"You are not entirely a stranger to us, Mr. Flemming," said Mrs. Denham,
looking at him from behind the floral pyramid, which had the happy
effect of isolating two guests who sat opposite each other. "There is a
person who goes about foreign lands with no other ostensible mission
than to sound your praise."

"You must set down a great deal to filial gratitude," returned Flemming.
"I have been almost a father to our young friend."

"He tells me that your being here is quite accidental."

"It was one of those fortunate things, madam, which sometimes befall
undeserving persons, as if to refute the theory of a special