“I realized afterwards how stupid I had been to send out the cards at all. It would have been much simpler and more considerate to do what I am doing now—pay an informal call on your Colonel and ask him to bring along any officers who might have nothing better to do on the day, instead of bothering busy men to answer silly written invitations. But one can never do a thing except in the way one has done it for forty years—even with a War on. You must have thought me very tiresome.” (She pronounced it “tarsome.”) “What quaint experiences you must be having among us!” “We are having very pleasant experiences,” said Jim. “That’s nice of you. You said it much more promptly than an Englishman would have done, too. Do you know,” continued this most informal _grande dame_, rounding suddenly upon the speaker, “that when you smile you are amazingly like my second son?” “He is in France, I suppose?” hazarded Jim. “Yes—he is in France. And—he is not coming back to me, I fear.” The old lady’s voice was as gruff as ever. “It happened at Le Cateau, nearly four years ago. He was mentioned in Despatches, though. One will always feel glad of that.” “And proud,” added Sam Richards. “Oh, yes—proud too. Pride is the greatest boon bestowed on mothers in war-time. I don’t know why the clergy are always preaching against it. Before this War I possessed four sons, and a certain modicum of pride. Now I have only one son, but I have four times as much pride. One finds it very sustaining. Have you boys mothers?” Both boys nodded assent. “Well, if you will give me their addresses I will write to them both, and say I have seen you. Mothers like first-hand information, you know.” Visiting-cards were produced shyly, and disappeared into a little black bag. “I have never been in America,” continued Lady Wyvern-Gryphon. “But one of my daughters-in-law is American. She came from Philadelphia. Is that anywhere near your homes? You know it, at any rate.” They confessed that they lived some fifteen hundred miles from Philadelphia. “Indeed!” remarked her ladyship, not at all perturbed. “That is interesting. We have no conception of distance in this country. Now tell me, how does an American country town differ from a town like this? What does a street look like, compared with one of ours?” “Wider, and straighter,” said Jim. “With maple trees growing along,” added Sam. “The houses are wooden,” continued Jim, warming up—“painted white, with a piazza, and wire doors to keep the flies out in—” “And no fences between the houses,” continued Sam, almost shouting. “And none in front. You just step right down on the street.” “And in summer-time,” interrupted Jim, with eyes closed rapturously, “when the sun strikes down through the maple trees, an’—oh, _gee_, I wish I was there now!”