m door the handsomest one got near enough to speak
to Sir S. "How do you do, Mr. Somerled?" he said. "Don't you remember
me? I'm Jack Morrison, Marguerite's cousin. I met you twice at Newport
while you were painting her portrait."

"Marguerite Morrison. 'M. M.,' the grateful model who gave him the
refrigerator basket!" thought I. And Sir S. proceeded to give the cousin
a refrigerator glance; but it didn't discourage him. He went on as
cordially as ever. "My three chums want to be presented: Dick Farquhar,
Charlie Grant, Sam Menzies. We're all Harvard men, seeing Europe in
general and Scotland in particular, in our vacation. We've every one of
us got Scottish blood in our veins, so we sort of feel we've earned the
right to make your acquaintance. And we've been wondering if you'd
introduce us to your friends, if you don't think it's cheek of us to
ask!"

Sir S. looked as if he did think it great "cheek"; but if he hesitated,
Mrs. West quickly decided for him. She gave the nice American boy one of
her sweet, soft smiles, and said, "Of course Mr. Somerled will introduce
you all to us; or you may consider yourselves introduced, and save him
the trouble. My name is Aline West, and this is my brother, Basil
Norman."

She went through this little ceremony in a charming way, yet as if she
expected the young men to be delighted; and I too thought they would
burst into exclamations of joy at meeting celebrities. But not a word
did any of the four say about the books, or their great luck in meeting
the authors. Perhaps they were too shy, though they didn't seem shy in
other ways. They just mumbled in a kind of chorus. "Very pleased to know
you both" (which Mr. Norman told me afterward is an American formula, on
being introduced); and when they'd bowed to the brother and sister and
Mrs. James (though she hadn't been mentioned) all four grouped round me.
This was natural, I suppose, because we were more or less of an age.

"Is this your daughter, Mrs. West?" asked Jack Morrison. "And may we
children talk to her?"

For a minute that pretty, sweet-faced woman looked exactly like a cat.
She did, really. It almost gave me a shock! I thought, "She must have
_been_ a cat in another state of existence, and hasn't quite got over
it." Not that cats aren't nice in their way; but when ladies in
fascinating frocks, with hair beautifully dressed, suddenly develop a
striking family likeness to Persian pussies robbed of milk, it does have
a