I regret to write it of two maiden ladies of good New York family, and a knowledge of the world; but the Miss Binghams capitulated to Dicky Dod with a promptness and unanimity which would have been very bad for him if nobody had been there to counteract its effects.  He walked between them through the vestibules, absorbing a flow of tribute from each side with a complacency which his recent trying experiences made all the more profound.  There was always a something, Miss Nancy declared, about an American who had made his home in England—­you could always tell.  “In your case, Mr. Dod, there is an association of Bond Street.  I can’t describe it, but it is there.  I hope you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Oh, no,” said Dicky, “I guess it’s my tailor.  He lives in Bond Street;” but this was artless and not ironical.  Miss Cora went further.  “I should have taken Mr. Dod for an Englishman,” she said, at which the miscalculated Mr. Dod looked alarmed.

“Is that so?” he responded.  “Then I’ll book my passage back at once.  I’ve been over there too long.  You see I’ve been kind of obliged to stay for reasons connected with the firm, but you ladies can take my word for it that when you get through this sort of ridiculous veneer I’ve picked up you’ll find a regular all-wool-and-a-yard-wide city-of-Chicago American, and I’m bound to ask you not to forget it.  This English way of talking is a thing that grows on a fellow unconsciously, don’t you know.  It wears off when you get home.”

At which Miss Cora and Miss Nancy looked at each other smilingly and repeated “Don’t you know” in derisive echo, and we all felt that our young friend had been too modest about his acquirements.

“But we mustn’t neglect our old masters,” cried Miss Nancy as those of the first corridor began to slip past us on the walls, with no desire to interrupt.  “What do you think of this Greek Byzantine style, Mr. Wick?  Somehow it doesn’t seem to appeal to me, though whether it’s the flatness—­or what——­”

“It is flat, certainly,” agreed the Senator, “but that’s a very popular style of angel for Christmas cards—­the more expensive kinds.  Here, I suppose, we get the original.”

“That is Tuscan school, sir—­madam,” put in the guide, “and not angel—­Saint Cecilia.  Fourteen century, but we do not know that artiss his name.  In the book you will see Cimabue, but it is not Cimabue—­unknown artiss.”

“Dear me!” cried momma.  “St. Cecilia, of course.  Don’t you remember her expression—­in the Catacombs?”

“She’s sweet, always and everywhere,” said Miss Cora, as we moved on, leaving the guide explaining St. Cecilia with his hands behind his back.  “And you did go to Capri after all?  Now I wonder, Nancy, if they had our experience about the oysters?”

“A horrid little man!” cried momma.

“Who showed you the way to the steamer——­”

“And hung around doing things the whole enduring time,” continued my parent, as Mark Antony’s daughter turned her head aside, and Drusus, the brother of Tiberius, frowned upon our passing.