By the second season Daisy’d broken quite a way into society, and knew a bishop and two lords. We were asked out a good deal, and we’d some worthy little dinners at our own shack--15 Farley Street, near Walworth Crescent, a thirty-five foot, four-story, high-stooped edifice that we paid the same rent for you’d pay for a seven-room flat in Chicago. Daisy by this time was in with all kinds of push. She was what she called a “success.” Nights when we didn’t go out she’d sit with me and say: “Well, I don’t really see how I’ll ever be able to live in Chicago again, and Necropolis City would certainly kill me.” This same season Lady Sara Gyves dined with us twice (it was a great step, Daisy said, and I took it for granted she knew), and once at a reception Daisy stood right up close to the Marchioness of Castlecourt, the greatest beauty in London, and watched her drink a cup of tea. Daisy didn’t meet her that time, but she said to me: “Next season I’ll know her, and the season after that, if we’re careful, I’ll dine with her. Then, Cassius P. Kennedy, we will have arrived!” I said “Sure!” That’s what I mostly say to her, because she’s mostly right. You don’t often find that little woman making breaks. It was in our third season in London, the time the middle of May, when the things occurred of which I have made mention at the beginning of my statement. It was this way: We’d been going out a good deal, pretty nearly every night, and we were glad to have, for once, a quiet evening at home. Of course, that doesn’t mean the same as it does in Necropolis City or even Chicago. We dine, just the same, at half-past eight, and both of us dress for dinner. We have to, Daisy says, no matter how we feel, because of the servants. The servants in London are good servants all right, but the way you have to avoid shocking their sensitive feelings sometimes makes a free-born American rebellious. I like to think I’m an object of interest to my fellow creatures, but it’s a good deal of a bother to have it on your mind that you mustn’t destroy the illusions of the butler or upset the ideals of the cook. As we were waiting for dinner to be announced we heard a cab rattle up and stop, as it seemed, at our door. We looked at each other with inquiring eyes, and then heard the cab go off--on the full jump, I should say, by the noise it made--and a minute later the bell rang sharp and quick. Perkins opened the door, and Daisy and I heard a lady’s voice, very sweet and sort of drawling, say something in the vestibule. I peeped through the curtains, and there were a man and a woman--a distinguished-looking pair--taking off their coats and primping themselves up at the hall mirror. I’d never seen either of them before, as far as I could remember, but I could tell by their general make-up that they were the real thing--the kind Daisy was always cultivating and asking to dinner. I stepped back, and said to her, in a whisper: