was still young, and evidently had been very pretty, but she had a worn, dissatisfied air, and did not look happy. Imogen learned afterward that her marriage, which was considered a triumph and a grand affair when it took place, had not turned out very well. Count Ernest de Conflans was rather a black sheep in some respects, had a strong taste for baccarat and rouge et noir, and spent so much of his bride’s money at these amusements during the first year of their life together, that her friends became alarmed, and their interference had brought about a sort of amicable separation. Count Ernest lived in Washington, receiving a specified sum out of his wife’s income, and she was travelling indefinitely in Europe with her mother. It was no wonder that she did not look satisfied and content.
“Miss Opdyke, of New York” was quite different and more attractive, Imogen thought. She had never seen any one in the least like her. Rather tall, with a long slender throat, a waist of fabulous smallness, and hands which, in their gants de Suède, did not seem more than two inches wide, she gave the impression of being as fragile in make and as delicately fibred as an exotic flower. She had pretty, arch, gray eyes, a skin as white as a magnolia blossom, and a fluff of wonderful pale hair—artlessly looped and pinned to look as if it had blown by accident into its place—which yet exactly suited the face it framed. She was restlessly vivacious, her mobile mouth twitched with a hidden amusement every other moment; when she smiled she revealed pearly teeth and a dimple; and she smiled often. Her dress, apparently simple, was a wonder of fit and cut,—a skirt of dark fawn-brown, a blouse of ivory-white silk, elaborately tucked and shirred, a cape of glossy brown fur whose high collar set off her pale vivid face, and a “picture hat” with a wreath of plumes. Imogen, whose preconceived notion of an American girl included diamond ear-rings sported morning, noon, and night, observed with surprise that she wore no ornaments except one slender bangle. She had in her hand a great bunch of yellow roses, which exactly toned in with the ivory and brown of her dress, and she played with these and smelled them, as she sat on a high black-oak settle, and, consciously or unconsciously, made a picture of herself.
She seemed as much surprised and entertained at Imogen as Imogen could possibly be at her.
“I suppose you run up to London often,” was her first remark.
“N-o, not often.” In fact, Imogen had been in London only once in the whole course of her life.
“Dear me!—don’t you? Why, how can you exist without it? I shouldn’t think there would be anything to do here that was in the least amusing,—not a thing. How do you spend your time?”
“I?—I don’t know, I’m sure. There’s always plenty to do.”
“To do, yes; but in the way of amusement, I mean. Do you have many balls? Is there any gayety going on? Where do you find your men?”
“No, we don’t have balls often, but we have lawn parties, and tennis, and once a year there’s a school feast.”
“Oh, yes, I know,—children in gingham frocks and pinafores, eating buns and drinking milk-and-hot-water out of mugs. Rapturous fun it must be,—but I think one might get tired of it in time. As for lawn parties, I tried one in Fulham the other day, and I don’t want to go to any more in England, thank you. They never introduced a soul to us, the band played out of tune, it was as dull as ditch-water,—just dreary, ill-dressed people wandering in and out, and trying to look as if five sour strawberries on a plate, and a thimbleful of ice cream were bliss and high life and all the rest of it. The only thing really nice was the roses; those were delicious. Lady Mary Ponsonby gave me three,—to make up for not presenting any one to me, I suppose.”
“Do you still keep up the old fashion of introductions in America?” said Imogen with calm superiority. “It’s quite gone out with us. We take it for granted that well-bred people will talk to their neighbors at parties, and enjoy themselves well enough for the moment, and then they needn’t be hampered with knowing them afterward. It saves a lot of complications not having to remember names, or bow to people.”
“Yes, I know that’s the theory, but I call it a custom introduced for the suppression of strangers. Of course, if you know all the people present, or who they are, it doesn’t matter in the least; but if you don’t, it makes it a ghastly mockery to try to enjoy yourself at a party. But do tell me some more about Bideford. I’m so curious about English country life. I’ve seen only London so far. Is it ever warm over here?”
“Warm?” vaguely, “what do you mean?”
“I mean warm. Perhaps the word is not known over here, or doesn’t mean the same thing. England seems to me just one degree better than Nova Zembla. The sun is a mere imitation sun. He looks yellow, like a real one, when you see him,—which isn’t often,—but he doesn’t burn a bit. I’ve had the shivers steadily ever since we landed.” She pulled her fur cape closer about her ears as she spoke.
“Why, what can you want different from this?” asked Imogen, surprised. “It’s a lovely day. We haven’t had a drop of rain since last night.”
“That is quite true, and remarkable as true; but somehow I don’t feel any warmer than I did when it rained. Ah, here comes the tea. Let me pour it, Mrs. Page. I make awfully good tea. Such nice, thick cream! but, oh, dear!—here is more of that awful bread.”
It was a stout household loaf, of the sort invariable in south-county England, substantial, crusty, and tough, with a “nubbin” on top, and in consistency something between pine wood and sole leather. Miss Opdyke, after filling her cups, proceeded to cut the loaf in slices, protesting as she did so that it “creaked in the chewing,” and that
“The muscular strength that it gave to her jaw
Would last her the rest of her life.”
“Why, what sort of bread do you have in America?” demanded Imogen, astonished and offended by the frankness of these strictures. “This is the sort every one eats here. I’m sure it’s excellent. What is there about it that you don’t like?”
“Oh, everything. Wait till you taste our American bread, and you’ll understand,—or rather, our breads, for we have dozens of kinds, each more delicious than the last. Wait till you eat corn-bread and waffles.”
“I’ve always been told that the American food was dreadfully messy,” observed Imogen, nettled into reprisals; “pepper on eggs, and all that sort of thing,—very messy and nasty, indeed.”
“Well, we have deviated from the English method as to the eating of eggs, I admit. I know it’s correct to chip the shell, and eat all the white at one end by itself, with a little salt, and then all the yellow in the middle, and last of all the white at the other end by itself; but there are bold spirits among us who venture to stir and mix. Fools rush in, you know; they will do it, even where Britons fear to tread.”
“We stopped at Northam to see Sir Amyas Leigh’s house,” Mrs. Page was saying to Lionel. “It’s really very interesting to visit the spots where celebrated people have lived. There is a sad lack of such places in America. We are such a new country. Lilly and Miss Opdyke walked up to the hill where Mrs. Leigh stood to see the Spanish ship come in,—quite fascinating, they said it was.”
“You must be sure to stay long enough in Boston to see the house where Silas Lapham lived,” put in the wicked Miss Opdyke. “One cannot see too much of places associated with famous people.”
“I don’t remember any such name in American history,” said honest Imogen,—“‘Silas Lapham,’ who was he?”
“A
