Said one of our English girls afterward to me, with tact and taste pre-eminently British, "_She_ glad she is not English! Really, _I'd_ almost as soon be American as Australian." Our Parsees were not our only peculiar people. We Americans found quite as much food for sly laughter in the queerness of our English _habitues_ as they did in ours. Our English contingent was largely feminine, therefore, as goes without saying, very High-Church, very _devote_, and excessively Tory, worshipping the English aristocracy vastly more than that of celestial courts. Everybody knows the two diseases that virulently assail young Englishwomen,--"scarlet fever" and "black vomit,"--maladies provoked by association with red-coated officers and black-coated curates. One of our fair Britons had the darker malady. She fasted regularly on Fridays and Tuesdays. We always recognized her _jours maigres_ by the quantity of cakes and pastry we saw carried to her room just before dinner, to which dinner she came in nun-like gray silk, saintly coiffure, with ascetic pallor on cheeks wont to bloom with roses de Ninon, to dine, _a la_ Sainte Catherine or Sainte Something else, on a few lentils or a lettuce-leaf. One Sunday somebody asked this fair devotee to give us a certain popular but profane piano-arrangement. She was shocked beyond measure. A few moments' temptation, however, brought her to a compromise. "I think there will be no harm if I play it slowly and make it as solemn as possible." We smiled at the aesthetic piety of our Saint Catherine. But she did more than smile at our national practicality when, one evening, from the gay drawing-room we heard the clamor of a feminine arrival below: "I won't see any rooms till I know your price. I won't stir a peg till I know what's to pay. I've come from Chicago, where folks know what's what, and I'm going to do Yoorup on the cheap!" Saint Catherine worshipped her country's aristocracy. One day Jonathan happened to be putting on his coat in the hall, when somebody knocked at the front door. Forgetting that the act, so natural to an American, is ungentlemanly and menial in England, he opened the door himself. A couple of young swells inquired for Saint Catherine. "I just saw her go out," answered Jonathan. "Tell her that the brothers of Lord Verisopht called," said the spokesman. "I'll tell her," spoke Jonathan; "but, good heavens, young man, don't lords' brothers have any names of their own in this country?" Another day came a gorgeous individual with a bouquet to the door. "What skion of the British nobility is that?" asked Jonathan. "That is Lord Blank's footman," replied Saint Catherine. "My! Well, whose footman is _that_?" continued her interlocutor, pointing to a less gorgeous person holding the reins. "That is Lord Blank," answered Saint Catherine loftily.