direction of Europe six
months before, since when we had only heard vaguely that he had lost
most of it, but was inalterably cheerful; and there was nobody,
apparently, he expected so little or desired so much to see in Paris as
the Senator, momma and me. Poppa called him "Dick, my boy," momma called
him "my dear Dicky," I called him plain "Dick," and when this had been
going on for, possibly, five minutes, the older and larger of the two
ladies of the party swung round with a majesty I at once associated with
my earlier London experiences, and regarded us through her _pince nez_.
There was no mistaking her disapproval. I had seen it before. We were
Americans and she was Mrs. Portheris of Half Moon-street, Piccadilly. I
saw that she recognised me and was trying to make up her mind whether,
in view of the complication of Mr. Dod, to bow or not. But the woman who
hesitates is lost, even though she be a British matron of massive
prejudices and a figure to match. In Mrs. Portheris's instant of
vacillation, I stepped forward with such enthusiasm that she was
compelled to take down her _pince nez_ and hold out a superior hand. I
took it warmly, and turned to my parents with a joy which was not in the
least affected. "Momma," I exclaimed, "try to think of the very last
person who would naturally cross your mind--our relation, Mrs.
Portheris. Poppa, allow me to introduce you to your aunt--Mrs.
Portheris. Your far distant nephew from Chicago, Mr. Joshua Peter Wick."

It was a moment to be remembered--we all said so afterwards. Everything
hung upon Mrs. Portheris's attitude. But it was immediately evident that
Mrs. Portheris considered parents of any kind excusable, even
commendable! Her manner said as much--it also implied, however, that she
could not possibly be held responsible for transatlantic connections by
a former marriage. Momma was nervous, but collected. She bowed a distant
Wastgaggle bow, an heirloom in the family, which gave Mrs. Portheris to
understand that if any cordiality was to characterise the occasion, it
would have to emanate from her. Besides, Mrs. Portheris was poppa's
relation, and would naturally have to be guarded against. Poppa, on the
other hand, was cordiality itself--he always is.

"Why, is that so?" said poppa, looking earnestly at Mrs. Portheris and
firmly retaining her hand. "Is this my very own Aunt Caroline?"

"At one time," responded Mrs. Portheris with a difficult smile, "and, I
fear, by ma