and countesses, to detect it."

"Perhaps it is," I said, and I _may_ have smiled.

"I should hate to pay the price."

Mr. Page's tone distinctly expressed that the society of earls and
countesses would be, to him, contaminating.

Again I made no reply. I wanted the American accent to drop out of the
conversation, if possible, but Fate had willed it otherwise.

"I sai, y'know, awfly hard luck, you're havin' to settle down amongst
these barbarians again, bai Jove!"

I am not quite sure that it's a proper term for use in a book, but by
this time I was _mad_. There was criticism in my voice, and a distinct
chill as I said composedly, "You don't do it very well."

I did not look at him, I looked at the lamp, but there was that in the
air which convinced me that we had arrived at a crisis.

"I suppose not. I'm not a marquis, nor the end man at a minstrel show.
I'm only an American, like sixty million other Americans, and the
language of Abraham Lincoln is good enough for me. But I suppose I, like
the other sixty million, emit it through my nose!"

"I should be sorry to contradict you," I said.

Arthur folded his arms and gathered himself up until he appeared to