“I got acquainted with an American girl in rather a queer sort of way,” he said, between cups. “It was in London, on the Duke of York's wedding-day. I'm rather a tall chap, you see, and in the crowd somebody touched me on the shoulder, and a plaintive voice behind me said, 'You're such a big man, and I am so little, will you please help me to save my life? My mother was separated from me in the crowd somewhere as we were trying to reach the Berkeley, and I don't know what to do.' I was a trifle nonplussed, but I did the best I could. She was a tiny thing, in a marvellous frock and a flowery hat and a silver girdle and chatelaine. In another minute she spied a second man, an officer, a full head taller than I am, broad shoulders, splendidly put up altogether. Bless me! if she didn't turn to him and say, 'Oh, you're so nice and big, you're even bigger than this other gentleman, and I need you both in this dreadful crush. If you'll be good enough to stand on either side of me, I shall be awfully obliged.' We exchanged amused glances of embarrassment over her blonde head, but there was no resisting the irresistible. She was a small person, but she had the soul of a general, and we obeyed orders. We stood guard over her little ladyship for nearly an hour, and I must say she entertained us thoroughly, for she was as clever as she was pretty. Then I got her a seat in one of the windows of my club, while the other man, armed with a full description, went out to hunt up the mother; and, by Jove! he found her, too. She would have her mother, and her mother she had. They were awfully jolly people; they came to luncheon in my chambers at the Albany afterwards, and we grew to be great friends.” “I dare say she was an English girl masquerading,” I remarked facetiously. “What made you think her an American?” “Oh, her general appearance and accent, I suppose.” “Probably she didn't say Barkley,” observed Francesca cuttingly; “she would have been sure to commit that sort of solecism.” “Why, don't you say Barkley in the States?” “Certainly not; we never call them the States, and with us c-l-e-r-k spells clerk, and B-e-r-k Berk.” “How very odd!” remarked Mr. Anstruther. “No odder than you saying Bark, and not half as odd as your calling it Albany,” I interpolated, to help Francesca. “Quite so,” said Mr. Anstruther; “but how do you say Albany in America?” “Penelope and I always call it Allbany,” responded Francesca nonsensically, “but Salemina, who has been much in England, always calls it Albany.”