Mrs. McAllister, who had wanted her son to go into the navy, had often been heard to speak like a pagan. She snapped at him, “I hope that time never comes, son, for I feel that there are times when one needs alcohol. Now, for example. At weddings and at funerals.” Her voice had risen to an impassioned shriek and her son put his finger to his solemn lips. “Hush, Mother, they say it takes very little to go to one’s head when one is advanced in years.”

The Admiral snorted, “Your mother can take care of herself, old man. She hasn’t had enough to drink, that’s her trouble. Hand me your glass, ma’am, and let me refill it.”

“Good afternoon,” said Miss Pride crisply from behind us. “Ah, Sonie, I see you’re taking over out here. I don’t know what I would do without you. Well, and have you seen our poor lambs, Sarah? They’re complaining that their arms ache from shaking hands and their faces hurt from smiling. They groaned when I told them they must stay another hour at least.”

“At least,” rejoined the old lady, staring hard at Miss Pride. “Why, I dare say that less than half of Boston has had a chance to congratulate them. My dear Lucy, you have outdone yourself!”

Miss Pride smiled pleasantly and turned to the Admiral. “I haven’t even thanked you, Lincoln, for contributing to the occasion, but I’m angry with you for not wearing your decorations.”

“Not with mufti, ma’am. Not me, thank you!” returned her friend, beaming all over his pink face in gratitude for her mention of his medals.

Old Mrs. McAllister, determined to find one barb at least to pierce Miss Pride’s composure, at this said, “How did Arthur Hornblower feel about it?”

But she did not fell Miss Pride who retorted, “I expect he breathed a sigh of relief when he knew he wouldn’t have to perform in that church. You know his objection is not to the Romish atmosphere but to the English. He’s a great Anglophobe.”

“Oh, I’m quite aware of that,” said Mrs. McAllister with considerable asperity. “We’ve had several disputes. I tell him he’s provincial, he tells me I’m a snob and we get nowhere.”

“You would have quarreled with Papa, Sarah. I have always been glad that he died before war was declared because, since he liked neither France nor England, I have no doubt he would have made himself talked about in Boston. Oh, I don’t mean to imply that he would not have supported the Allies whole-heartedly as far as the United States was concerned, but he would have turned a cold shoulder on England, I’m sure. His sister, my aunt Josephine, had what Papa called ‘the hebetude’ to marry a baronet and to be called henceforth ‘Lady Fulke.’ It was the name, even more than her large and totally inconvenient country establishment, that struck Papa so ridiculous. And I recollect that at the time I was presented at court and we were perforce staying with my aunt and my uncle Geoffrey, Papa consistently introduced her as ‘Mrs. Faneuil’ or ‘Mrs. Fuller,’ being unable to bring himself to say ‘Lady’ or to utter a name so peculiar as ‘Fulke.’ But I remember, also, that my sainted father was worsted on one such occasion by Mr. Henry James who turned to an English woman and said, ‘One may forget other names, but Faneuil Hall is always on the tip of the tongue.’ Papa was no backwoodsman: he blushed to the roots of his hair and never returned to England again or permitted the names of Mr. James and Sir and Lady Fulke to be spoken in his presence.”