'I am not accustomed to a motor, Sir Archibald,' said I, 'nor am I accustomed to the ways of young women nowadays,—young ladies we used to be called when I was a girl, but I feel that the phrase is quite inapplicable to a person like Miss Pomeroy.'
'"Young woman" is better, perhaps,' he said, I thought with a smile.
'No lady,' I continued, 'when I was young, would talk like that or act like that.' 'A sweet face shrinking under a cottage bonnet' (as Mr. MacGill used to say) 'is better than any tulip.'
Sir Archibald smiled again, and seemed about to leave the room, but I asked him to be so good as to hold a skein of wool for me. I had brought down my knitting, so he sat down to hold it, looking rather annoyed.
I continued firmly, 'There is a freedom—I should almost say a licence—about American women and their ways—'
'You have dropped your ball,' he said; and when he had returned it to me, he began to try to change the subject by remarking about the weather.
'It is,' I said, 'extremely cold, as it has always been ever since I came here, but, as I was saying, there is something about Miss Pomeroy's singing—'
Here he bent his head so low that I was unable to see his face, and stretched my wool so tight that I fear my next socks will be spoiled; it was three-ply merino, and very soft.
'She sings,' I went on without taking any notice of the wool, 'in a way that I feel sure poor Mr. MacGill would have considered indecorous. I was a musician myself as a girl, and used to sing with much expression. "She Wore a Wreath of Roses" was a great favourite. I always expected to be asked to repeat it. I remember on one occasion when I came to—
"A sombre widow's cap adorns