how she had caught him and denouncing the whole editorial tribe as humbugs.  “Dear Madam,” Page immediately wrote in reply, “when I break an egg at breakfast, I do not have to eat the whole of it to find out that it is bad.”  Page’s treatment of authors, however, was by no means so acrimonious as this little note might imply.  Indeed, the urbanity and consideration shown in his correspondence with writers had long been a tradition in American letters.  The remark of O. Henry in this regard promises to become immortal:  “Page could reject a story with a letter that was so complimentary,” he said, “and make everybody feel so happy that you could take it to a bank and borrow money on it.”

Another anecdote reminiscent of his editorial days was his retort to S.S.  McClure, the editor of McClure’s Magazine.

“Page,” said Mr. McClure, “there are only three great editors in the United States.”

“Who’s the third one, Sam?” asked Page.

Plenty of stories, illustrating Page’s quickness and aptness in retort, have gathered about his name in England.  Many of them indicate a mere spirit of boyish fun.  Early in his Ambassadorship he was spending a few days at Stratford-on-Avon, his hostess being an American woman who had beautifully restored an Elizabethan house; the garden contained a mulberry tree which she liked to think had been planted by Shakespeare himself.  The dignitaries of Stratford, learning that the American Ambassador had reached town, asked permission to wait upon him; the Lord Mayor, who headed the procession, made an excellent speech, to which Page appropriately replied, and several hundred people were solemnly presented.  After the party had left Page turned to his hostess: 

“Have they all gone?”

“Yes.”

“All?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s take hands and dance around the mulberry tree!”

Page was as good as his word; he danced as gaily as the youngest member of the party, to the singing of the old English song.

The great service in St. Paul’s Cathedral, in commemoration of America’s entry into the war, has already been described.  A number of wounded Americans, boys whose zeal for the Allies had led them to enlist in the Canadian Army, were conspicuous participants in this celebration.  After the solemn religious ceremonies, the Ambassador and these young men betook themselves for lunch to a well-known London restaurant.  In an interval of the conversation one of the Americans turned to Page.

“Mr. Ambassador, there was just one thing wrong with that service.”

“What was that?”

“We wanted to yell, and we couldn’t.”

“Then why don’t you yell now?”

The boy jumped on a chair and began waving his napkin.  “The Ambassador says we may yell,” he cried.  “Let’s yell!”

“And so,” said Page, telling the story, “they yelled for five minutes and I yelled with them.  We all felt better in consequence.”