And then we were invited to visit Tom's Aunt Elizabeth in Boston and meet the whole family. I was sick with dread. I begged Tom to tell me some of the things I should and should not do.
“Be your own sweet self and they 'll love you,” he promised, kissing me. He meant it, dear soul; but I knew better.
From the very first minute, Tom's Aunt Elizabeth made me conscious of her disapproval. In after years I won the old lady's affection and real respect, but I never spent a completely happy hour in her presence.
The night we arrived she gave me a formal dinner. Some dozen additional guests dropped in later, and I was bewildered by new faces and strange names. Later in the evening I noticed a distinguished-looking middle-aged gentleman standing alone just outside the drawing-room door. Hurrying out, I invited him to come in. He inquired courteously if there was anything he could do for me.
“Yes, indeed,” I assured him. “Come in and talk to me.” He looked shy and surprised. I insisted. Then Tom's aunt called me and, drawing me hastily into a corner, demanded why I was inviting a servant into her drawing-room.
“Servant! He looks like a senator,” I protested. “He's dressed exactly like every other man at the party and he looks twice as important as most of them.”
“Didn't you notice he addressed you as 'Madam'?” pursued Aunt Elizabeth.
“But it 's perfectly proper to call a married woman 'Madam.' Foreigners always do,” I defended.
“Can't you tell a servant when you see one?” inquired the old lady icily.
I begged to know how one could. All Boston was summed up in her answer: “You are supposed to know the other people.”