Margot shook hands with him, and nodded and smiled. When he was gone I observed the carriage near which we were standing--and I knew at once that it was my wife’s carriage. It was a grand car of state, yet quiet and simple. I often looked at it afterwards, trying to puzzle out how it contrived to convey two exactly opposite impressions. I could never solve the mystery. On the lofty box sat the most perfect model of a coachman I had seen up to that time. Beside the open door in the shallow, loftily hung body of the carriage stood an equally perfect footman. I was soon to get used to that marvelous English ability at specializing men--a system by which a man intended for a certain career is arrested in every other kind of growth, except only that which tends to make him more perfect for his purpose. Observing an English coachman, or valet or butler or what not, you say, “Here is a remarkably clever man.” Yet you soon find out that he is practically imbecile in every other respect but his specialty. We entered the carriage, I sitting opposite the ladies--and most uncomfortable I was; for the carriage was designed to show off its occupants, and to look well in it they had to know precisely how to sit, which I did not. No one noticed me, however. There was too much pleasure to be got out of observing Edna and Margot, who were looking like duchesses out of a storybook. I knew they were delightfully conscious of the sensation they were making, yet they talked and laughed as if they were alone in their own sitting room--a trick which is part of that “education” of which you have heard something, and will hear still more. The conversation seemed easy. In fact, it was only animated. It was a fair specimen of that whole mode of life. You have seen the wonderful peaches that come to New York from South Africa early in the winter--have delighted in their exquisite perfection of color and form. But have you ever tasted them? I would as lief eat sawdust; I would rather eat it--for, of sawdust I should expect nothing. “That young man is the Marquis of Crossley,” said my wife. I liked to hear her pronounce a title in private. It gave you the sense of something that tasted fine--made you envy her the sensation she was getting. “Who is he?” said I. Margot laughed naïvely--an entrancing display of white teeth and rose-lined mouth. “Marquis of Crossley, papa,” she said. “That’s all--and quite enough it is.” “I don’t know much about the big men in England,” said I. “He looked rather young to amount to very much.” “He’s as old as you are,” said Edna, a flash of ill-humor appearing and vanishing. I was astonished. “I thought him a boy,” said I. “He’s one of the greatest nobles in England--one of the greatest in Europe,” said Edna--and I saw Margot’s eyes sparkling. “He seemed a nice fellow,” said I amiably. “How you have grown, Margot!” “Hasn’t she, though!” cried my wife. “Aren’t you proud of her?”