If everybody was not enjoying himself at the Villa it certainly was not
the fault of the host, Sir Stephen Orme. Howard, as he drew his chair
up beside Stafford, when the ladies had left the room after dinner, and
the gentlemen had begun to glance longingly at the rare Chateau claret
and the Windermere port, made a remark to this effect: "Upon my word, Staff, it is the most brilliant house-party which I have
ever joined; and as to your father in his character of host--Well,
words fail to express my admiration."

Stafford glanced at his father at the head of the table and nodded. Sir
Stephen had been the life and soul and spring of the dinner; talking
fashionable gossip to Lady Fitzharford on one side of him, and a "giddy
girl of twenty" on the other; exchanging badinage with "Bertie," and
telling deeply interesting stories to the men; and he was now dragging
reluctant laughter from the grim Baron Wirsch and the almost grimmer
Griffenberg, as he saw with one eye that the wine was circulating, and
with the other that no one was being overlooked or allowed to drop into
dullness.

"A most marvellous man! Nearly all the morning he was closeted with the
financiers; in the afternoon he went for a ride with Lady Clansford; he
was in attendance at the solemn function of afternoon tea; he played
croquet--and played it well--at half-past five; at six I saw him
walking round the grounds with the Effords and the Fitzharfords, and
now he is laughing and talking with the _abandon_ of a boy of
five-and-twenty, while the boy of five-and-twenty sits here as grave
and silent as if he had been working like a horse--or a Sir Stephen
Orme--instead of fooling about the lake with the most beautiful woman
in the party."