“Oh, nobody; I just felt it in my bones. Well, Mrs. Skinner has a new and original fad—that woman is clever! She has seen the automobile fad, and the fancy-ball fad, and the monkey-dinner fad, and the dining-on-board-the-Emperor’s-yacht fad, and the exclusive-school fad, and the exclusive-theatrical-performance fad, and the marrying-of-a-daughter-to-a-belted-earl-like-a-thief-in-the-night fad. She has done horse shows and yacht races and dinners to the Ambassador, and now she has outfooted New York and Newport, and left Chicago at the post. She has a private chapel, and she’s going to have a private chaplain!”
“Oh, Lord, you dreamed it!”
“No, I didn’t, Richard, my dear. You see, the Jim Skinners”—Mrs. Luttrell pronounced it as if it were “jimskinners”—“were originally honest Methodists; but these people shed their religion along with their old clothes and plated forks. And now Mrs. Jimskinner has become Mrs. James Van Cortlandt Skinner and an ardent Episcopalian, and so has Gladys Jimskinner, and Gwendolyn Jimskinner, and Lionel Jimskinner, and Harold Jimskinner, and I believe that woman has set her heart on having what she calls an Anglican archbishop in these United States.”
“If she has, I know it was you who put the microbe in her head.”
It was a chance shot, but it hit the white. “I think I did, Richard,” meekly replied Mrs. Luttrell. “Mrs. Jimskinner—I mean Mrs. James Van Cortlandt Skinner—was urging me to join the Order of St. Monica; that’s an order in which widows pledge themselves not to get married again. I told her there wasn’t the least reason for me to join, for, although I’ve never told my age to any living person, I hardly consider myself on the matrimonial list any longer. And then Mrs. Van Cortlandt Skinner told me of the various beautiful brand-new orders in the Church, and said she thought of getting an order founded for one of her boys; the other would have to marry and perpetuate the family. And I suggested a contemplative order with a nice name, like the Order of St. Werewolf.”
“Oh, Sara!”
“Yes, I did. I told her St. Werewolf was much respected in the Middle Ages; one heard a good deal of him; and she swallowed the wolf and the saint at one gulp. She said she rather liked the notion and might build a beautiful monastery on her estate on the Hudson, and whichever one of her boys she decided to indulge in a life of celibacy she would have made the first superior. And then I said—now, Richard, don’t be rude—I said how much simpler all these delightful things would be if we only had an archbishop like the Archbishop of Canterbury; and Mrs. Van Cortlandt Skinner said that she had often longed for an archbishop and had always thought that the development of the Church in America required one; and then I caught Senator Thorndyke’s eye—we were coming out of church—and I ran away.”
“You wicked old woman! What will you do next!”
“I haven’t done anything. You see, Mrs. Jimskinner belongs to that class who don’t see any reason why they shouldn’t have anything they happen to fancy. If they get married and don’t like it, they get a divorce and a new husband or a new wife as they get a new butler when they discharge the one they have. If they want a title, they go and buy one. If they want a crest, they simply take one. They can’t understand why they shouldn’t do anything or have anything they want. I declare, Mrs. Jimskinner was talking to me with the simplicity of a child, and she’s as bent on that private chaplain and that archbishop as if each was the latest style of automobile. I don’t wonder the London newspapers guy Americans, remembering what kind of Americans find their way into London society.”
“That reminds me—I met General Brandon two days ago, and his daughter Mrs. Darrell.”