“Then she isn’t taking advantage of us because we are Americans, the way the cabmen do?”
“Oh yes, I dare say she is; but you must stand up to her. They’re a set of thieves, the whole of ’em. I say, that’s a pretty picture you’ve got pinned up there.”
“That’s to hide a hole in the lace curtain,” I explained, gratuitously. Then I remembered, and glanced apprehensively at my sister, but fortunately she had not heard me. “That is one of the pictures from Truth, an American magazine. I always save the middle picture when it is pretty, and pin it up on the wall.”
“That is one thing where the States are away ahead of us—in their illustrated magazines.”
“Don’t say ‘the States!’ I’ve told you before. I didn’t know you ever admitted that anything was better in America.”
Reggie only smiled affably. He ignored my offer of battle, and said:
“Abingdon is asking your sister to dine. I’m asked, and Freddie and his wife, and I think you will enjoy it.”
When they were all gone I marched downstairs to Mrs. Black without saying a word to any one. When I came up I found my sister hanging over the banisters.
“What is the matter? What have you done? I knew you were angry by the way you looked.”
“It was lovely!” I said. “I sent for Mrs. Black, and said, ‘Mrs. Black, do you know the name of the gentleman whom you asked to wipe his shoes to-day?’ ‘No,’ said she. ‘It was the Duke of Abingdon,’ I said, sternly, well knowing the unspeakable reverence which the middle-class English have for a title. She turned purple. She fell back against the wall, muttering, ‘The Duke of Abingdon! The Duke of Abingdon!’ I believe she is still leaning up against the wall muttering that holy name. A title to Mrs. Black!”