Three days later Craighouse wrote another letter to Mr. Townsend. That
gentleman read it with great interest, and noted particularly these
passages: "They have a library, but nearly every book I have opened has
uncut pages." "The daughter, Lady Dorothy Oaklands by name, is quite
good-looking, but mentally and emotionally she is asleep." "The old boy
showed me the portraits of his ancestors this morning. I made the
mistake of asking what each one _did_. It appears that they merely
_were_." "I am trying an experiment in feminine psychology--I am
acting Pygmalion to Lady Dorothy's Galatea." "The earl appears to be
very rich, but quite respectable." "We had some titled women to lunch
to-day. I have at last found out what countesses talk about--how to
secure exemption for their gardeners. It has quite done away with the
former vice of gossip." "Lady Dorothy plays the piano rather nicely,
but with no soul." "Have I mentioned the daughter, Lady Dorothy? She is
refreshingly beautiful at times." "I do like the speaking voices of
English women when they are not putting on side. Lady Dorothy has a
contralto lilt in her voice that is rather pleasing." "Dinner is a
tremendous affair. A prune may constitute a course, but nothing reduces
the ritual performed by the high priest and his assistant."
That evening Mr. Townsend looked over the table at his wife.
"My dear," he said, "what happens when an American young man falls in
love with the daughter of an English earl?"
"Why, both families object, naturally," said the companion of his joys
and sorrows.