“You haven’t a title,” said Mrs. Burr.
“Hal, you are quite too horrid. I have not thought of his title—not once. But Norry, you can’t look like that, no matter how hard you try.”
“Oh yes I can; it’s not so hard as you imagine; only it’s not my chronic effect. When I am—ah—indiscreet enough to produce it, I have the grace to keep out of sight.”
“That is not what I mean.”
“Oh, he is an Englishman—with a title,” said the young man, huffily. “Miss Maitland, have you caught the fever?”
“I have either had all, or have outgrown the children’s diseases, and I class the title-fever among them. I know that some get it late in life, but some people will catch anything. Our old butler has just had the mumps.”
“That’s a jolly way of looking at it.”
“Oh you men are not altogether exempt,” said Mrs. Burr. “But the funniest case is Ellis Davis. He’s just come back from London with a wild Cockney accent, calls himself ‘Daivis,’ and says ‘todai’ and the Princess of ‘Wailes,’ and ‘paiper.’ Probably he also says ‘caike’ and ‘laidy.’ I can’t think where he got it, for he must have had some letters, and you may bet your prospects he presented them.”
“Possibly he saw more of the hotel servants and his barber than he did of the others,” suggested Miss Maitland.
“Or his ear may be defective, or his memory bad, and he got mixed,” replied Mrs. Burr. “We’ll give him the benefit of the doubt; but I can’t think why the most original people on earth want to imitate anyone. And yet they say we hate the English. Great heaven! Why, we even drink the nasty concoction called English breakfast tea, a brand the English villagers would not give tuppence a pound for, simply because it has the magic word tacked on to it.”