the thumb and between the thumb and first finger." My
sense of humor permitted me to ask, after trying it once, "What do you
do when the meat is tough?" The Scotch aristocrat never smiled. "It is
n't," she answered.

I was humiliated and a little soul-sick before that luncheon ended.
I had been told to break each bite of my bread; a lady never bites a
piece of bread. I had been told to use a knife to separate my fish,
when I had learned, oh, so carefully, in America to eat fish with a fork
and a piece of bread. I might have laughed about it all had not so much
been at stake, even Tom's respect.

III.

The Scotch lady of aristocratic birth and social experience lived with
me one terrible week. On the seventh day I came home from shopping with
presents for the twins back in Wisconsin. A day or so earlier, while my
mentor was out of the room, I had asked the chef waiter of our floor
about himself and his family, and found that his family too included
twins. So with the present for my family I also brought some for his.

Mr. MacLeod, the member of Parliament from Scotland, and Lord Lansdowne
happened to be calling when I arrived, and Tom and the Scotch lady were
there. The chef waiter was taking the coats of the gentlemen callers.
I received the guests, acknowledged the introductions, and then, as I
removed my own coat, I handed him the little package.

When we were alone the Scotch lady turned to me. "In England," she
said, "ladies never converse with their servants, particularly in the
presence of guests."

Then she sealed her doom. "Ladies never make gifts to their servants,"
she added. "Their secretaries, housekeepers, or companions disburse
their bounty."

I remembered the old U. S. A. An American chef waiter might hope to be
the father of a President. On the ranch I had cooked for men of less
education and much worse manners than this domestic who brought my
athletic husband's breakfast to his bedside and who happened to be the
proud father of twins.

I would learn table manners from an English lady of aristocratic birth
and social experience; but when it came to the human act of a little
gift to a faithful servant, I declared my American independence.

I was homesick for Wisconsin, homesick for real and simple people.
I wanted to go home! That night Tom and I had our first real quarrel,
and it was over my dismissal of the Scotch lady of aristocratic birth.
Life became intolerable for