how do you do!” The gentleman was Mr. Richard Dod of Chicago, known to our family without interruption since he wore long clothes.  Mr. Dod had come into his patrimony and simultaneously disappeared in the direction of Europe six months before, since when we had only heard vaguely that he had lost most of it, but was inalterably cheerful; and there was nobody, apparently, he expected so little or desired so much to see in Paris as the Senator, momma and me.  Poppa called him “Dick, my boy,” momma called him “my dear Dicky,” I called him plain “Dick,” and when this had been going on for, possibly, five minutes, the older and larger of the two ladies of the party swung round with a majesty I at once associated with my earlier London experiences, and regarded us through her pince nez.  There was no mistaking her disapproval.  I had seen it before.  We were Americans and she was Mrs. Portheris of Half Moon-street, Piccadilly.  I saw that she recognised me and was trying to make up her mind whether, in view of the complication of Mr. Dod, to bow or not.  But the woman who hesitates is lost, even though she be a British matron of massive prejudices and a figure to match.  In Mrs. Portheris’s instant of vacillation, I stepped forward with such enthusiasm that she was compelled to take down her pince nez and hold out a superior hand.  I took it warmly, and turned to my parents with a joy which was not in the least affected.  “Momma,” I exclaimed, “try to think of the very last person who would naturally cross your mind—­our relation, Mrs. Portheris.  Poppa, allow me to introduce you to your aunt—­Mrs. Portheris.  Your far distant nephew from Chicago, Mr. Joshua Peter Wick.”

It was a moment to be remembered—­we all said so afterwards.  Everything hung upon Mrs. Portheris’s attitude.  But it was immediately evident that Mrs. Portheris considered parents of any kind excusable, even commendable!  Her manner said as much—­it also implied, however, that she could not possibly be held responsible for transatlantic connections by a former marriage.  Momma was nervous, but collected.  She bowed a distant Wastgaggle bow, an heirloom in the family, which gave Mrs. Portheris to understand that if any cordiality was to characterise the occasion, it would have to emanate from her.  Besides, Mrs. Portheris was poppa’s relation, and would naturally have to be guarded against.  Poppa, on the other hand, was cordiality itself—­he always is.

“Why, is that so?” said poppa, looking earnestly at Mrs. Portheris and firmly retaining her hand.  “Is this my very own Aunt Caroline?”

“At one time,” responded Mrs. Portheris with a difficult smile, “and, I fear, by marriage only.”

“Ah, to be sure, to be sure!  Poor Uncle Jimmy gave place to another.  But we won’t say anything more about that.  Especially as you’ve been equally unfortunate with your second,” said poppa sympathetically.  “Well, I’m sure I’m pleased to meet you—­glad to shake you by the hand.”  He gave that member one more pressure as he spoke and relinquished it.