we, my wife and I newly married, were taking a last look at the receding
American shore, there appeared a gentleman who seemed by the cut of his jib
startlingly French. We had under our escort a French governess returning to
Paris. In a twinkle she and this gentleman had struck up an acquaintance,
and much to my displeasure she introduced him to me as "Monsieur Mahoney."
I was somewhat mollified when later we were made acquainted with Madame
Mahoney.

I was not at all preconceived in his favor, nor did Monsieur Mahoney, upon
nearer approach, conciliate my simple taste. In person, manners and apparel
he was quite beyond me. Mrs. Mahoney, however, as we soon called her, was a
dear, whole-souled, traveled, unaffected New England woman. But Monsieur!
Lord! There was no holding him at arm's length. He brooked not resistance.
I was wearing a full beard. He said it would never do, carried me perforce
below, and cut it as I have worn it ever since. The day before we were to
dock he took me aside and said:

"Mee young friend"--he had a brogue which thirty years in Algiers, where he
had been consul, and a dozen in Paris as a gentleman of leisure, had not
wholly spoiled--"Mee young friend, I observe that you are shy of strangers,
but my wife and I have taken a shine to you and the 'Princess'," as he
called Mrs. Watterson, "and if you will allow us, we can be of some sarvis
to you when we get to town."

Certainly there was no help for it. I was too ill of the long crossing to
oppose him. At Blackwall we took the High Level for Fenchurch Street, at
Fenchurch Street a cab for the West End--Mr. Mahoney bossing the job--and
finally, in most comfortable and inexpensive lodgings, we were settled in
Jermyn Street. The Mahoneys were visiting Lady Elmore, widow of a famous
surgeon and mother of the President of the Royal Academy. Thus we were