New York—­as a place where if one could make up one’s mind to the plunge, one might marry one’s sons profitably.  At the outset it presented a field so promising as to lead to rashness and indiscretion on the part of persons not given to analysis of character and in consequence relying too serenely upon an ingenuousness which rather speedily revealed that it had its limits.  Ingenuousness combining itself with remarkable alertness of perception on occasion, is rather American than English, and is, therefore, to the English mind, misleading.

At first younger sons, who “gave trouble” to their families, were sent out.  Their names, their backgrounds of castles or manors, relatives of distinction, London seasons, fox hunting, Buckingham Palace and Goodwood Races, formed a picturesque allurement.  That the castles and manors would belong to their elder brothers, that the relatives of distinction did not encourage intimacy with swarms of the younger branches of their families; that London seasons, hunting, and racing were for their elders and betters, were facts not realised in all their importance by the republican mind.  In the course of time they were realised to the full, but in Rosalie Vanderpoel’s nineteenth year they covered what was at that time almost unknown territory.  One may rest assured Sir Nigel Anstruthers said nothing whatsoever in New York of an interview he had had before sailing with an intensely disagreeable great-aunt, who was the wife of a Bishop.  She was a horrible old woman with a broad face, blunt features and a raucous voice, whose tones added acridity to her observations when she was indulging in her favourite pastime of interfering with the business of her acquaintances and relations.

“I do not know what you are going chasing off to America for, Nigel,” she commented.  “You can’t afford it and it is perfectly ridiculous of you to take it upon yourself to travel for pleasure as if you were a man of means instead of being in such a state of pocket that Maria tells me you cannot pay your tailor.  Neither the Bishop nor I can do anything for you and I hope you don’t expect it.  All I can hope is that you know yourself what you are going to America in search of, and that it is something more practical than buffaloes.  You had better stop in New York.  Those big shopkeepers’ daughters are enormously rich, they say, and they are immensely pleased by attentions from men of your class.  They say they’ll marry anything if it has an aunt or a grandmother with a title.  You can mention the Marchioness, you know.  You need not refer to the fact that she thought your father a blackguard and your mother an interloper, and that you have never been invited to Broadmere since you were born.  You can refer casually to me and to the Bishop and to the Palace, too.  A Palace—­even a Bishop’s—­ought to go a long way with Americans.  They will think it is something royal.”  She ended her remarks with one of her most insulting snorts of laughter, and Sir Nigel became dark red and looked as if he would like to knock her down.