In England, whatever objections Protestants may make to Roman Catholic services, they admit that everything is done decently and in order.  The laxity, however, in the Italian churches is, or was until recently, beyond belief, and every traveller brought home some queer tale.  Mrs. Burton, who prided herself on being “an old English Catholic,” was frequently distressed by these irregularities, and she never hesitated to reprove the offending priests.  One day a priest who had called at Burton’s house was requested to conduct a brief service in Mrs. Burton’s private chapel.  But the way in which he went through the various ceremonies so displeased Mrs. Burton that she called out to him, “Stop! stop! pardon me, I am an old English Catholic—­and therefore particular.  You are not doing it right—­Stand aside, please, and let me show you.”  So the astonished priest stood aside, and Mrs. Burton went through all the gesticulations, genuflexions, etcetera, in the most approved style.  Burton, who was standing by, regarded the scene with suppressed amusement.  When all was over, he touched the priest on the shoulder and said gravely and slowly, pointing to Mrs. Burton:  “Do you know who this is?  It is my wife.  And you know she will some day die—­We all must die—­And she will be judged—­ we must all be judged—­and there’s a very long and black list against her.  But when the sentence is being pronounced she will jump up and say:  ’Stop! stop! please pardon my interruption, but I am an old English Catholic.’”

To one house, the hostess of which was one of the most fashionable women in London, Burton, no matter how much pressed, had never been prevailed upon to go.  He disliked the lady and that was enough.  “Here’s an invitation for all of us to Lady ——­’s,” said Mrs. Burton to him one day in honied tones.  “Now, Dick, darling, this time you must go just for Lisa’s sake.  It’s a shame she should lose so excellent a chance of going into good society.  Other people go, why shouldn’t we?  Eh, darling?”

“What won’t people do,” growled Burton, “for the sake of a dinner!”

Eventually, however, after an explosion, and he’d be asterisked if he would, and might the lady herself be asterisked, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera, “Dick Darling” was coaxed over, and he, Mrs. Burton and Lisa at the appointed time sallied forth in all the glory of war paint, and in due course were ushered into the detested house.

As he approached the hostess she looked steadily at him through her lorgnon, and then, turning to a companion, said with a drawl:  “Isn’t it horrid, my dear!  Every Dick, Tom and Harry’s here to-night.”

“That’s what comes of being amiable,” said Burton to his wife, when they got home again—­and he’d be asterisked, and might everybody else be asterisked, if he’d enter that asterisked house again.  Then the humour of it all appealed to him; and his anger dissolved into the usual hearty laughter.