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 for hairpins.” The hostess moaned, Mr. Talliaferro! Mrs. Wiseman said savagely:

“I have a better idea than that, for both sexes: your photograph on one side and the golden rule on the other.” The florid man glared at her with interest. The nephew broke in once more:

“I mean, have you invented a jar yet, invented a way to get the stuff out of the jar?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve done that. You spoon it out, you know.”

“But tell ’em how you know all Americans are constipated,” Fairchild suggested. Mrs. Maurier rang the service bell furiously and at length. The steward appeared and as he removed the plates and replaced them with others, the florid man leaned nearer Mrs. Wiseman.

“What’s that chap?” he asked indicating Mr. Talliaferro.

“What is he?” Mrs. Wiseman repeated. “Why— I think he sells things downtown. Doesn’t he, Julius?” She appealed to her brother.

“I mean, what—ah—race does he belong to?”

“Oh. You’d noticed his accent, then?”

“Yes. I noticed he doesn’t talk like Americans. I thought perhaps he is one of your natives.”

“One of our—?” She stared at him.

“Your red Indians, y’know,” he explained.

Mrs. Maurier rang her little bell again, sort of chattering to herself.

Mrs. Maurier put an end to that luncheon as soon as she decently could. If I can only break them up, get them into a bridge game, she thought in an agony. It had got to where every time one of the gentlemen made the precursory sound of speech, Mrs. Maurier flinched and cringed nearer Mr. Tallia-