the most depressing and unsatisfying meal she had ever eaten.
Behind the old lady's chair was a solemn pontiff in the form of a butler: a lord in waiting to a lady in waiting to Good Queen Victoria. A lovely bit of mahogany was before them; wonderful old silver, fine napery and divers articles of "bigotry and virtue" that excited Helen's cupidity, lay all around; and yet the whole scheme had such an air of historical solidity that it might have come from Madame Tussaud's, the Wallace Collection, or the Ark.
The fare was so scant that Helen would have had qualms about taking a full share had not her hostess appeared to subsist on hot water and dry toast. Moreover, it was ill cooked, sauceless, uninspired; and although claret was offered with an air that conferred the monarchy of all vintages upon it, the guest regretted that she had not been content with a humble but safe alternative in the form of barley water.
So much for the meal. As for the spirit which informed it, Helen soon found that it was hopeless for a mere "American newspaper person" of no particular social credentials, to penetrate the chevaux de frise of Lady Elizabeth's class consciousness. To begin with, judging by a stray remark the old woman let fall, it seemed a source of mild surprise to find that "an American" was not necessarily "a nigger" and that "a newspaper person" was not necessarily "a printer." All the same, when the best had been said and every
