“You’re deliciously naïf, I must say that for you!” Mrs. Westgate promptly pursued. “It must be a great advantage to you here in London. I suppose that if I myself had a little more naïveté—of your blessed national lack of any approach to a sense for shades—I should enjoy it more. I should be content to sit on a chair in the Park and see the people pass, to be told that this is the Duchess of Suffolk and that the Lord Chamberlain, and that I must be thankful for the privilege of beholding them. I daresay it’s very peevish and critical of me to ask for anything else. But I was always critical—it’s the joy of my life—and I freely confess to the sin of being fastidious. I’m told there’s some remarkably superior second-rate society provided here for strangers. _Merci_! I don’t want any superior second-rate society. I want the society I’ve been accustomed to.” Percy mustered a rueful gaiety. “I hope you don’t call Lambeth and me second-rate!” “Oh I’m accustomed to you!” said Mrs. Westgate. “Do you know you English sometimes make the most wonderful speeches? The first time I came to London I went out to dine—as I told you, I’ve received a great deal of attention. After dinner, in the drawing-room, I had some conversation with an old lady—no, you mustn’t look that way: I assure you I had! I forget what we talked about, but she presently said, in allusion to something we were discussing: ‘Oh, you know, the aristocracy do so-and-so, but in one’s own class of life it’s very different.’ In one’s own class of life! What’s a poor unprotected American woman to do in a country where she is liable to have that sort of thing said to her?” “I should say she’s not to mind, not a rap—though you seem to get hold of some very queer old ladies. I compliment you on your acquaintance!” Percy pursued. “If you’re trying to bring me to admit that London’s an odious place you’ll not succeed. I’m extremely fond of it and think it the jolliest place in the world.” “Pour vous autres—I never said the contrary,” Mrs. Westgate retorted—an expression made use of, this last, because both interlocutors had begun to raise their voices. Mr. Beaumont naturally didn’t like to hear the seat of his existence abused, and Mrs. Westgate, no less naturally, didn’t like a stubborn debater. “Hallo!” said Lord Lambeth; “what are they up to now?” And he came away from the window, where he had been standing with Bessie. “I quite agree with a very clever countrywoman of mine,” the elder lady continued with charming ardour even if with imperfect relevancy. She smiled at the two gentlemen for a moment with terrible brightness, as if to toss at their feet—upon their native heath—the gauntlet of defiance. “For me there are only two social positions worth speaking of—that of an American lady and that of the Emperor of Russia.” “And what do you do with the American gentlemen?” asked Lord Lambeth. “She leaves them in America!” said his comrade.