But to return to my going ons (which must by no means be confounded with goings-on).
From my Literary Tea, I went to a Musical Tea. This is distinctly a London function, and the music, while of the best, acts as a soaking wet Ostermoor laid on the feebly-burning vivacity of the occasion. The young girl sings, the long-haired gentleman plays a violin, the lady in the Greek gown plays the harp, and the guests arrive continuously, and escape as soon as possible.
But, like Kipling’s lovable tramp, I “liked it all,” and stood tranquilly holding my teacup, while I studied the Tussaud effects all about me.
Then, as it was Fourth of July, I betook myself to the reception at Dorchester House.
This is a most admirable institution. I mean the reception, not the house, though the statement really applies to both.
But it is a fine thing to celebrate our Independence Day in London. There is an incongruity about it that lends an added charm to what is in itself a stupendously beautiful affair.
Dorchester House, one of the finest residences in London, is now the home of our own ambassador, and is thrown open for a great reception on the afternoon of every Fourth of July.
As my hansom took its place in the long line of waiting carriages I glanced up at the noble old stone mansion, and was thrilled with a new sort of patriotism when I saw our own Stars and Stripes wave grandly out against the blue English sky. Our flag at home is a blessed, matter-of-fact affair; but our flag proudly topping our Embassy in another land is a thrilling proposition, and I suddenly realized the aptness of the homely old phrase “so gallantly streaming.”
Chiding myself for what I called purely emotional patriotism (but still quivering with it), I entered the marble halls of Dorchester House.
A compact, slowly-moving mass of people exactly fitted the broad and truly magnificent marble staircase.