an ingenuously
elate flourish of trumpets. Miss Vanderpoel's frocks were multitudinous
and wonderful, as also her jewels purchased at Tiffany's. She carried
a thousand trunks--more or less--across the Atlantic. When the ship
steamed away from the dock, the wharf was like a flower garden in the
blaze of brilliant and delicate attire worn by the bevy of relatives and
intimates who stood waving their handkerchiefs and laughingly calling
out farewell good wishes.

Sir Nigel's mental attitude was not a sympathetic or admiring one as
he stood by his bride's side looking back. If Rosy's half happy,
half tearful excitement had left her the leisure to reflect on his
expression, she would not have felt it encouraging.

"What a deuce of a row Americans make," he said even before they were
out of hearing of the voices. "It will be a positive rest to be in a
country where the women do not cackle and shriek with laughter."

He said it with that simple rudeness which at times professed to be
almost impersonal, and which Rosalie had usually tried to believe was
the outcome of a kind of cool British humour. But this time she started
a little at his words.

"I suppose we do make more noise than English people," she admitted
a second or so later. "I wonder why?" And without waiting for an
answer--somewhat as if she had not expected or quite wanted one--she
leaned a little farther over the side to look back, waving her small,
fluttering handkerchief to the many still in tumult on the wharf. She
was not perceptive or quick enough to take offence, to realise that the
remark was significant and that Sir Nigel had already begun as he meant
to go on. It was far from being his intention to play the part of an
American husband, who was plainly a creature in whom no authority vested
itself. Americans let their women say and do anything, and were capable
of fetching and carrying for them. He had seen a man run upstairs for
his wife's wrap, cheerfully, without the least apparent sense that
the service was the part of a footman if there was one in the house, a
parlour maid if there was not. Sir Nigel had been brought up in the good
Early Victorian days when "a nice little woman to fetch your slippers
for you" figured in certain circles as domestic bliss. Girls were
educated to fetch slippers as retrievers were trained to go into the
water after sticks, and terriers to bring back balls thrown for them.

The new Lady Anstruthers had, it supervened