The family was Catholic, of the very oldest and strictest, and the
brother-in-law, a prelate of high degree, had invited the guests to
be shown through his cathedral. "Imagine my bewilderment!" said
Sylvia. "I thought I was going to meet a church dignitary, grave and
reverent; but here was a wit, a man of the world. Such speeches you
never heard! I was ravished by the grandeur of the building, and I
said: 'If I had seen this, I would have come to you to be married.'
'Madame is an American,' he replied. 'Come the next time!' When I
objected that I was not a Catholic, he said: 'Your beauty is its own
religion!' When I protested that he would be doing me too great an
honour, 'Madame,' said he, 'the _honneur_ would be all to the church!'
And because I was shocked at all this, I was considered to be a
provincial person!"

Then they had come to London, a dismal, damp city where you "never
saw the sun, and when you did see it it looked like a poached egg";
where you had to learn to eat fish with the help of a knife, and
where you might speak of bitches, but must never on any account
speak of your stomach. They went for a week-end to "Hazelhurst," the
home of the Dowager Duchess of Danbury, whose son van Tuiver, had
entertained in America, and who, in the son's absence, claimed the
right to repay the debt. The old lady sat at table with two fat
poodle dogs in infants' chairs, one on each side of her, feeding out
of golden trays. There was a visiting curate, a frightened little
man at the other side of one poodle; in an effort to be at ease he
offered the wheezing creature a bit of bread. "Don't feed my dogs!"
snapped the old lady. "I don't allow anybody to feed my dogs!"

And then there was the Honourable Reginald Annersley, the youngest
son of the family, home from Eton on vacation. The Honourable