In 1920 my second daughter, Gretchen, was to be married to the son of Judge Finletter of Philadelphia. The young people had met at Chaumont, France, where Finletter had been stationed at General Headquarters after the armistice and while Gretchen and her friend, Mary Schieffelin, were there as war workers. My daughter agreed enthusiastically with my suggestion that the wedding should be in Paris after my European tour with the orchestra was finished, and this to them highly important event was carried out with great success on the 17th of July, the ceremony being solemnized at the American church and the reception held at my hotel, the “France et Choiseul,” in the Rue St. Honoré. As I had come to this hotel for so many years, Monsieur Mantel, the _directeur_, and all the employees from the chef down, helped on the affair with an enthusiasm which can only be found in a country like France, where all festivals of family life are treated with tremendous importance. All the reception-rooms down-stairs and the greater part of the courtyard, which had been charmingly framed in with laurel-trees and filled with inviting-looking little tables, had been placed at our disposal. All the employees of the house—including Leonie, François, Pierre, Adolph, Theo, Félice, Madeleine, Michel, and Louis, all of whom I had known during the war and even before—wore large white boutonnières and ribbons in honor of the occasion; and at four o’clock about a hundred French and American friends began to arrive from the ceremony at the church. Among these was my old friend Madame Nellie Melba, who had come over from London for the purpose, and “_le grand maître_” Camille Saint-Saëns, whom all the hotel employees immediately recognized and treated with great and fond deference. As Saint-Saëns entered the courtyard he turned to me and said, rather testily: “Mon cher ami, pourquoi est-ce que vous n’avez-pas donné une de mes symphonies dans un de vos concerts à Paris ce printemps?” For a moment I was nonplussed what to answer. We had given three concerts in Paris and I had devoted one to the “Eroica” of Beethoven, and the other two to the César Franck D Minor, the Mozart “Jupiter,” and the Dvořák “New World” symphonies, but Albert Spalding, my soloist, had played the Saint-Saëns Violin Concerto, so that his name had been represented on our programmes. Suddenly the right answer came to me: “Cher maître, don’t you know that during the war I played your great Symphony No. 3 at a gala concert on the Fête Nationale at the Salle du Conservatoire for the benefit of the Croix Rouge, and here is Monsieur Cortot who played the piano part and here Mademoiselle Boulanger who played the organ.” (Both of them were luckily standing by my side as Saint-Saëns entered.) He was completely pacified and was carried off in triumph to the buffet by a crowd of adoring French musicians in order to offer him some refreshment.