rld. All the men on
board trail after her. But she makes most of them worship from afar.
As for the women, she picks the best, instinctively, and the ice which
seems congealed around the heart of the average Britisher melts before
her charm, so that already she is playing bridge with the proper
people, and having tea with the inner circle. Even with these she
seems to assume an air of remoteness, which seems to set her apart--and
it is this air, Grace says, which conquers.

When people aren't coupling Porter's name with Delilah's, they are
coupling it with Grace's. You should see our "red-headed woodpeckers,"
as poor Barry used to call them. When they promenade, Grace wears a
bit of a black hat that shows all of her glorious hair, and Porter's
cap can't hide his crown of glory. At first people thought they were
brother and sister, but since it is known that they aren't I can see
that everybody is puzzled.

It is all like a play passing in front of me. There are charming
English people--charming Americans and some uncharming ones. Oh, why
don't we, who began in such simplicity, try to remain a simple people?
It just seems to me sometimes as if everybody on board is trying to
show off. The rich ones are trying to display their money, and the
intellectual ones their brains. Is there any real difference between
the new-rich and the new-cultured, Roger Poole? One tells about her
three motor cars, and the other tells about her three degrees. It is
all tiresome. The world is a place to have things and to know things,
but if the having them and knowing them makes them so important that
you have to talk about them all the time there's something wrong.

That's the charm of Grace. She has money and position--and I've told
you how she simply carried off all the honors at college; she paints
wonderfully, and her opinions are all worth listening to. But she
doesn't throw her knowledge at you. She is interested in people, and
puts books where they belong. She is really the only one whom I
welcome without any misgivings, except darling Aunt Isabelle. The
others when they come to talk to me, are either too sad or too
energetic.

Doesn't all that sound as if I were a selfish little pig? Well, some
day I shall enjoy them all--but now--my heart is crying--and Leila,
with her little white face, hurts. Mrs. Barry Ballard! Shall I ever
get used to hearing her called that? It seems to set her apart from
little Leila