smiled, bowed his thanks, and said:

"And America for beautiful women."

Mr. Gladstone, too, could indulge in small talk. "You should have seen
her rosy cheeks before she went to the Continent," he said, and added
kindly that I looked very tired and should go down to Hawarden Castle
and rest.

"Oh," I explained happily, "it is n't that--I 'm not tired. It is such
a happy reason!" I felt Eve gasp. Mr. Gladstone opened his kind eyes
very wide, and his heavy chin settled down in his collar. It was the
last bad break I made. But it was a blessing to me, for it robbed all
social form of terror. For the first time, I realized that custom is
merely a matter of geography. One takes off one's shoes to enter the
presence of the ruler of Persia. One wears a black tie until eleven
o'clock in Vienna--or does n't. One uses fish knives in England until
he dines with royalty--then one must manage with a fork and a piece of
bread. One dresses for dinner always, and waits for the hostess to say
it is time, and speaks only to one's neighbor at table. In France one
guest speaks to any or all of the others; all one's friends extend
congratulations if a baby is coming; one shares all his joys with
friends. But in England nobody must know, and everybody must be
surprised. No one ever speaks of himself in England. They are
sensitive about everything personal. But there is an underground and
very perfect system by which everything about everybody is known and
noised about and discussed with everybody except the person in question.
It is a mysterious and elaborate hypocrisy.