Then my name was called.
I had been thinking such kindly things of England—Mr. Balfour fighting for general education; Mr. Gladstone struggling to make England push Turkey back and save Greece; all England raising money for the fire sufferers of Paris and the Indian famine. What a humanitarian race they were! I felt as pro-England as any of the satellites in that room, and almost as much awed. But back of it all was a natural United States be-natural-as-you-were-born impulse. Neither Back Bay Boston nor Tom's Philadelphia friends had been able to repress it. When my name was called and I stepped up, I made the little bow I had practised for hours the day before and that morning; and then, as I looked into the eyes of the queen, I held out my hand! It was the instinctive action of a free-born American.
I have realized in the years since what a real queen she was. Smiling, she extended her hand—but not to be touched. It was a little wave, a little imitation of my own impulsive outstretching to a friend; then her eyes went to the next person, and I was on my way, having been presented at court and done what “is not done” in England.
Tom's mission in England was important. He had friends, and there were distinguished people in England who regarded him and his family of sufficient value to “take us aboard.” They were most gracious and kindly. But Tom's eyes were not smiling.
That night my husband said some very frank things to me. His position, and even the credit of our country to some extent, depended upon our conduct. He did not say he was ashamed of me, and in my heart I do not think he was; but he regretted that I had not been trained in the little things upon which England put so much weight. He suggested my employing a social secretary.
“What I need, Tom,” I said, “is a teacher. You have told me these customs are not important. They are important. I need some one to teach them to me, and I propose to get a teacher.”
In the personal columns of the Times I had read this advertisement:
'A lady of aristocratic birth and social training
desires to be of service to a good-paying guest.'
I swallowed my pride and answered it. I was not her paying guest, but I employed this Scotch lady of aristocratic birth and social experience.
On the first day at luncheon, which we ate privately in my apartment, she said: “In England a knife is held as you hold a pen, the handle coming up above the thumb and between the thumb and first finger.” My sense of humor permitted me to ask, after trying it once, “What do you do when the meat is tough?” The Scotch aristocrat never smiled. “It is n't,” she answered.