ake
in the name of an American whom Lady Webling passed along to her as
"Mr. Davidge, of the States." And he must have been somebody of
importance, for even Sir Joseph got his name right. Marie Louise,
however, disliked him cordially at once--for two reasons: first, she
hated herself so much that she could not like anybody just then; next,
this American was entirely too American. He was awkward and
indifferent, but not at all with the easy amble and patrician
unconcern of an English aristocrat.

Marie Louise was American-born herself, and humbly born, at that, but
she liked extreme Americanism never the more. Perhaps she was a bit of
a snob, though fate was getting ready to beat the snobbery out of her.
And hers was an unintentional, superficial snobbery, at worst. Some
people said she was affected and that she aped the swagger dialect.
But she had a habit of taking on the accent and color of her
environments. She had not been in England a month before she spoke
Piccadilly almost impeccably. She had caught French and German
intonations with equal speed and had picked up music by ear with the
same amazing facility in the days when certain kinds of music were her
livelihood.

In one respect her Englishness of accent was less an imitation or an
affectation than a certain form of politeness and modesty. When an
Englishwoman said, "Cahn't you?" it seemed tactless to answer, "No, I
cann't." To respond to "Good mawning" with "Good morrning" had the
effect of a contradiction or a correction. She had none of the
shibboleth spirit that leads certain people to die or slay for a
pronunciation. The pronunciation of the people she was talking to was
good enough for her. She conformed also because she hated to see
people listening less to what she said than to the Yankee way she said
it.

This man Davidge had a superb brow and a look of success, but he bored
her before he reached her. She made ready for flight to some other
group. Then he startled her--by being startled as he caught sight of
her. When Lady Webling transmitted him with a murmur of his name and a
tender, "My daughter," Davidge stopped short and mumbled:

"I've had the pleasure of meeting you before, somewhere, haven't I?"

Marie Louise snubbed him flatly. "I think not."

He took the slap with a smile. "Did I hear Lady Webling call you her
daughter?"

Marie Louise did not explain, but answered, curtly, "Yes," with the
aristocratic English parsimony that makes i