When she and her husband arrived at the railroad station, that at least was primitive enough, and Mr. Oldname in much worn tweeds might have come from a castle or a cabin; country clothes are no evidence.  But her practised eye noticed the perfect cut of the chauffeur’s coat and that the car, though of an inexpensive make, was one of the prettiest on the market, and beautifully appointed.

“At least they have good taste in motors and accessories,” thought she, and was glad she had brought her best evening dress.

They drove up to a low white shingled house, at the end of an old-fashioned brick walk bordered with flowers.  The visitor noticed that the flowers were all of one color, all in perfect bloom.  She knew no inexperienced gardener produced that apparently simple approach to a door that has been chosen as frontispiece in more than one book on Colonial architecture.  The door was opened by a maid in a silver gray taffeta dress, with organdie collar, cuffs and apron, white stockings and silver buckles on black slippers, and the guest saw a quaint hall and vista of rooms that at first sight might easily be thought “simple” by an inexpert appraiser; but Mrs. Oldname, who came forward to greet her guests, was the antithesis of everything the bride’s husband had led her to believe.

To describe Mrs. Oldname as simple is about as apt as to call a pearl “simple” because it doesn’t dazzle; nor was there an article in the apparently simple living-room that would be refused were it offered to a museum.

The tea-table was Chinese Chippendale and set with old Spode on a lacquered tray over a mosaic-embroidered linen tea-cloth.  The soda biscuits and cakes were light as froth, the tea an especial blend imported by a prominent connoisseur and given every Christmas to his friends.  There were three other guests besides the bride and groom:  a United States Senator, and a diplomat and his wife who were on their way from a post in Europe to one in South America.  Instead of “bridge” there was conversation on international topics until it was time to dress for dinner.

When the bride went to her room (which adjoined that of her husband) she found her bath drawn, her clothes laid out, and the dressing-table lights lighted.

That night the bride wore her cerise dress to one of the smartest dinners she ever went down to, and when they went up-stairs and she at last saw her husband alone, she took him to task.  “Why in the name of goodness didn’t you tell me the truth about these people?”

“Oh,” said he abashed, “I told you it was a little house—­it was you who insisted on bringing that red dress.  I told you it was too handsome!”

“Handsome!” she cried in tears, “I don’t own anything half good enough to compare with the least article in this house.  That ‘simple’ little woman as you call her would, I think, almost make a queen seem provincial!  And as for her clothes, they are priceless—­just as everything is in this little gem of a house.  Why, the window curtains are as fine as the best clothes in my trousseau.”