she said: "In England a knife is held as you hold a pen, the handle
coming up above the thumb and between the thumb and first finger." My
sense of humor permitted me to ask, after trying it once, "What do you
do when the meat is tough?" The Scotch aristocrat never smiled. "It is
n't," she answered.

I was humiliated and a little soul-sick before that luncheon ended.
I had been told to break each bite of my bread; a lady never bites a
piece of bread. I had been told to use a knife to separate my fish,
when I had learned, oh, so carefully, in America to eat fish with a fork
and a piece of bread. I might have laughed about it all had not so much
been at stake, even Tom's respect.




III.

The Scotch lady of aristocratic birth and social experience lived with
me one terrible week. On the seventh day I came home from shopping with
presents for the twins back in Wisconsin. A day or so earlier, while my
mentor was out of the room, I had asked the chef waiter of our floor
about himself and his family, and found that his family too included
twins. So with the present for my family I also brought some for his.

Mr. MacLeod, the member of Parliament from Scotland, and Lord Lansdowne
happened to be calling when I arrived, and Tom and the Scotch lady were
there. The chef waiter was taking the coats of the gentlemen callers.
I received the guests, acknowledged the introductions, and then, as I
removed my own coat, I handed him the little package.