We were duly presented, the Baronet staring at us as though we were so many pretty fawns reclaimed by civilization from the wilds. Harriet's cousin was as red in the face as a turkey-cock, and her attitude was one of reverence itself. Mr. Ashton stood apart in a state of semi-unconscious bliss, looking like a kind of glorified Barnum. His wife was torn between feverish glances towards the glittering table that could be seen in the distance and longing looks fixed upon the Baronet. She was wondering how she might properly surrender herself to be borne in to dinner.
In due time, however, we were all seated, my escort proving the wealthy husband of the woman who had comforted me about my prayer—he was the magnate who had made his money out of lard. My first remark to him, after we were seated, disclosed my ignorance of the proper pronunciation of his name. I suppose I was nervous. He corrected me, adding in fine original vein: "But call me what you like, as long as you don't call me too late for dinner," spreading his napkin over an expanse that indicated his counsel was probably serious enough.
At this juncture Mr. Ashton asked Gordon to say grace; and the tone of his request showed how highly honoured he considered both the Almighty and his minister to be by the observance. This finished, there followed that peculiar silence which so often wraps a self-conscious company, all of whom are bent on conducting themselves with unusual propriety.
But the Baronet was soon in midstream, his spirits rising higher and higher as he remarked the deference with which his every word was greeted. "Yes," he was saying when I first caught the drift of his talk, "I had a great time in New York—was fairly beset with their reporters, though, all wanting interviews. They're a great lot, those New Yorkers," he went grandly on, "nearly all of them either colonels or millionaires—any one who isn't one or the other is sure to be a judge. Greatest conglomeration of newly rich I ever saw in my life—but it's wonderful how they worship what they haven't got. A lot of humbugs," he added scornfully, "pretending to despise titles the way they do—and yet they fairly worship them. The Duke of Marlborough happened to be in New York the same time as me; and, really, there didn't seem to be anything else in the papers except our movements—we simply couldn't sneeze, without it being in the papers. Oh, they're very young yet," he added patronizingly, "they're very young indeed."
"Mrs. Laird's a Yankee, Sir Austin," one of the lady guests ventured timidly, designating me by a sideward glance. I dare say I wasn't hard to identify, for I know my cheeks were blazing and my eyes flashing. It's wonderful how much dearer your country grows when you're in exile.
The Baronet adjusted his monocle and looked at me with some interest across the table. "Well," he began with a very condescending smile, "there are some nice Yankees, you know—for instance," nodding at me as he spoke.
"I'm not a Yankee," I broke in with vehemence. "I'm no more a Yankee than you are, sir." I forgot all about the handle to his name.
"Were you addressing Sir Austin?" Mr. Ashton interrupted, meaning reproof; he was so horror-stricken that he had brought his erstwhile busy jaws to a sudden standstill.
"I was addressing anybody who calls me a Yankee," I retorted, controlling a voice that would shake in spite of me.
"Oh, Mrs. Laird," the informant of a moment ago interjected, "I always understood you were an American."