'And is he afraid of me?'
'Yes, I think he is.'
'He doesn't behave so, anyway.'
'Oh, he has very good manners,' said the girl.
'Well, I suppose he's bound to do that. Isn't he a kind of nobleman?' Macarthy asked.
'Well no, not exactly a nobleman.'
'Well, some kind of a panjandarum. Hasn't he got one of their titles?'
'Yes, but not a very high one,' Agatha explained. 'He's only a K.C.B. And also an M.P.'
'A K.C.B. and an M.P.? What the deuce is all that?' And when Agatha had elucidated these mystic signs, as to which the young man's ignorance was partly simulated, he remarked that the Post-office ought to charge her friend double for his letters—for requiring that amount of stuff in his address. He also said that he owed him one for leading them astray at a time when they were bound to be on hand to receive one who was so dear to them. To this Agatha replied:
'Ah, you see, Englishmen are like that. They expect women to be so much honoured by their wanting them to do anything. And it must always be what they like, of course.'
'What the men like? Well, that's all right, only they mustn't be Englishmen,' said Macarthy Grice.
'Oh, if one is going to be a slave I don't know that the nationality of one's master matters!' his sister exclaimed. After which his mother began to ask him if he had seen anything during the previous months of their Philadelphia cousins—some cousins who wrote their name Gryce and for whom Macarthy had but a small affection.
