It will be remembered that she was the daughter of one.
“Yes,” said Julia, for the third time; “New York, of all places, for me! I’m now convinced it’s the finest city in the world!”
“Don’t be so quick in your conclusions, my love! Wait till you’ve seen Paris! Perhaps you may change your mind!”
It was Mrs Girdwood who made these remarks, entering the room at the conclusion of her daughter’s rhapsody.
“I’m sure I won’t mother. Nor you neither. We’ll find Paris just as we’ve found London; the same selfishness, the same social distinctions, the same flunkeyism. I’ve no doubt all monarchical countries are alike.”
“What are you talking about, child? France is now a republic.”
“A nice republic, with an Emperor’s nephew for its President—or rather its Dictator! Every day, as the papers tell us, robbing the people of their rights!”
“Well, my daughter, with that we’ve got nothing to do. No doubt these revolutionary hot-heads need taming down a little, and a Napoleon should be the man to do it. I’m sure we’ll find Paris a very pleasant place. The old titled families, so far from being swept off by the late revolution, are once more holding up their heads. ’Tis said the new ruler encourages them. We can’t fail to get acquainted with some of them. It’s altogether different from the cold-blooded aristocracy of England.”
The last remark was made in a tone of bitterness. Mrs Girdwood had been now several months in London; and though stopping at the Clarendon Hotel—the caravanserai of aristocratic travellers—she had failed to get introduction to the titled of the land.
The American Embassy had been polite to her, both Minister and Secretary—the latter, noted for his urbanity to all, but especially to his own countrymen, or countrywomen, without distinction of class. The Embassy had done all that could be one for an American lady travelling without introductions. But, however rich and accomplished, however beautiful the two girls in her train, Mrs Girdwood could not be presented at Court, her antecedents not being known.