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 middle-aged and elderly, who make "sport" and out-door exercise the chief aim and end of existence. But I yield to none in my love and admiration for the real, genuine, unmodernised English maiden, at her gentlest and best,—she is the rosebud of the world. And I tender devout reverence and affection to the un-fashionable, single-hearted, dear, loving and ever-beloved English wife and mother—she is the rose in all its full-blown glory. Unfortunately, however, these English rosebuds and roses are seldom met with in the sweltering, scrambling crowd called "society." They dwell in quiet country-places where the lovely influences of their modest and retiring lives are felt but never seen. Society likes to be seen rather than felt. There is all the difference. And in that particular section of it whose aim is seeing to be seen, and seen to be seeing, the American woman is as an oasis in the desert. She also wants to be seen,—but she expresses that desire so naïvely, and often so bewitchingly, that it is a satisfaction to every one to grant her request. She also would see,—and her eyes are so bright and roving and restless, that Mother Britannia is perforce compelled to smile indulgently, and to open all her social picture-books for the pleasure of the spoilt child of eternal Mayflower pedigree. It has to be said and frankly admitted too, that much of the popularity attending an American girl when she first comes over to London for a "season" is due to an idea which the stolid Britisher gets into his head, namely, that she has, she must have, Money. The American girl and Money are twins, according to the stolid Britisher's belief. And when the stolid Britisher fixes some