The Buccaneers by Edith Wharton Page B

nothing but Americans. My son’s house is always full of them.”
    â€œOh, yes; and I believe that Miss St. George is a particular friend of Lady Richard’s.”
    â€œVery likely. Is she from the same part of the States—from Brazil?”
    Miss March, who was herself a native of the States, had in her youth been astonished at enquiries of this kind, and slightly resentful of them; but long residence in England, and a desire to appear at home in her adopted country, had accustomed her to such geography as Lady Brightlingsea’s. “Slightly farther north, I think,” she said.
    â€œAh? But they make nothing of distances in those countries, do they? Is this new young woman rich?” asked Lady Brightlingsea abruptly.
    Miss March reflected, and then decided to say: “According to Miss Testvalley, the St. Georges appear to live in great luxury.”
    Lady Brightlingsea sank back wearily. “That means nothing. My daughter-in-law’s people do that too. But the man has never paid her settlements. Her step-father, I mean—I never can remember any of their names. I don’t see how they can tell each other apart, all herded together, without any titles or distinctions. It’s unfortunate that Richard did nothing about settlements; and now, not even two years after their marriage, the man says he can’t go on paying his step-daughter’s allowance. And I’m afraid the young people owe a great deal of money.”
    Miss March heaved a deep sigh of sympathy. “A bad coffee-year, I suppose.”
    â€œThat’s what he says. But how can one tell? Do you suppose those other people would lend them the money?”
    Miss March counted it as one of the many privileges of living in London that two or three times a year her friend Lady Brightlingsea came to see her. In Miss March’s youth a great tragedy had befallen her—a sorrow which had darkened all her days. It had befallen her in London, and all her American friends—and they were many—had urged her to return at once to her home in New York. A proper sense of dignity, they insisted, should make it impossible for her to remain in a society where she had been so cruelly, so publicly offended. Miss March listened, hesitated—and finally remained in London. “They simply don’t know,” she explained to an American friend who also lived there, “what they’re asking me to give up.” And the friend sighed her assent.
    â€œThe first years will be difficult,” Miss March had continued courageously, “but I think in the end I shan’t be sorry.” And she was right. At first she had been only a poor little pretty American who had been jilted by an eminent nobleman; yes, and after the wedding-dress was ordered—the countermanding of that wedding-dress had long been one of her most agonizing memories. But since the unhappy date over thirty years had slipped by; and gradually, as they passed, and as people found out how friendly and obliging she was, and what a sweet little house she lived in, she had become the centre of a circle of warm friends, and the oracle of transatlantic pilgrims in quest of a social opening. These pilgrims had learned that Jacky March’s narrow front door led straight into the London world, and a number had already slipped in through it. Miss March had a kind heart, and could never resist doing a friend a good turn; and if her services were sometimes rewarded by a cheque, or a new drawing-room carpet, or a chinchilla tippet and muff, she saw no harm in this way of keeping herself and her house in good shape. “After all, if my friends are kind enough to come here, I want my house and myself, tiny as we both are, to be presentable.”
    All this passed through Miss March’s active mind while she sat listening to Lady Brightlingsea. Even should friendship so incline them, she doubted if the St. George family would be able to