I must here interrupt these selections from my correspondence; for it was at Boston, as my reader will perhaps have guessed, that I had the happiness of meeting Porstock; and my letters from that time onwards have a way of always coming back to one subject, and treating that subject in the sentimental vein young ladies are apt to fall into on such occasions—I will not “give myself away” by risking any more quotations. It was with my kind hosts at Boston, Lord and Lady Massachussets, that Porstock was first introduced to me; he used to tell me afterwards that he had the feeling his tie wasn’t straight all the evening, and that he was never so uncomfortable in his life! He was of the American type of handsomeness which has given so many bridegrooms to the daughters of English families; tall, straight, square-jawed, a man of purpose. After our second meeting we seemed to have a natural attraction for one another, and he used to call every morning and take me out in his helico till late at night, missing, I am afraid, a luncheon engagement now and again. People began to suspect that an attachment was growing up between us even before we realized it ourselves; and witty Lady Massachussets used to chaff me when I seemed absent-minded in conversation by telling me I was always up in the air! “Was it touch of hand, turn of head?” I only know that one evening when we were flying back from Montreal (the only time I crossed into Dominion territory during my stay) he had just had occasion to help me with the steering-gear, which was a little stiff, when suddenly we looked into one another’s eyes and knew our fate. “It’s a pity,” he said suddenly, “there’s no landing-stage at that damned registry.” “Wilson, you fool,” I said, “has it taken you a fortnight to discover that?” “Guess I’m not going to be that kind of fool any longer,” he said—and he wasn’t. But there! What right has an old woman, after all her good resolutions, to repeat all these tender passages? Enough to say, as Porstock himself said in announcing the affair to our host, that we came down hitched. I asked his leave to speak to his mother the same evening, and found her kindness itself. “Take him, my dear,” she said, “and God bless you; you have discovered our treasure.” It was arranged, of course, that I should take him back to England, and that our marriage should be celebrated there. Since my mother did not approve of short engagements, we decided to put off the ceremony till October. The Press—what a curious habit the Press has of suddenly waking up and finding that it knew all about you!—gave us an almost royal welcome. I must overcome my blushes, and give you an extract from the _Daily Mail_, if only to let you enjoy the quaint, archaic language of it: “PEER’S DAUGHTER HITCHES MILLIONAIRE: ANOTHER AMERICAN COUSIN GETS HIS FROM CUPID