A Little Journey in the World | Page 8

banish romance out of the world?"
"You are right, my dear," said my wife. "The only thing that makes
society any better than an industrial ant-hill is the love between women
and men, blind and destructive as it often is."
"Well," said Mrs. Morgan, rising to go, "having got back to first
principles--"
"You think it is best to take your husband home before he denies even
them," Mr. Morgan added.
When the others had gone, Margaret sat by the fire, musing, as if no
one else were in the room. The Englishman, still alert and eager for
information, regarded her with growing interest. It came into my mind
as odd that, being such an uninteresting people as we are, the English
should be so curious about us. After an interval, Mr. Lyon said:
"I beg your pardon, Miss Debree, but would you mind telling me
whether the movement of Women's Rights is gaining in America?"
"I'm sure I don't know, Mr. Lyon," Margaret replied, after a pause, with
a look of weariness. "I'm tired of all the talk about it. I wish men and
women, every soul of them, would try to make the most of themselves,
and see what would come of that."
"But in some places they vote about schools, and you have
conventions--"
"Did you ever attend any kind of convention yourself, Mr. Lyon?"
"I? No. Why?"
"Oh, nothing. Neither did I. But you have a right to, you know. I should

like to ask you one question, Mr. Lyon," the girl, continued, rising.
"Should be most obliged."
"Why is it that so few English women marry Americans?"
"I--I never thought of that," he stammered, reddening.
"Perhaps--perhaps it's because of American women."
"Thank you," said Margaret, with a little courtesy. "It's very nice of you
to say that. I can begin to see now why so many American women
marry Englishmen."
The Englishman blushed still more, and Margaret said good-night.
It was quite evident the next day that Margaret had made an impression
on our visitor, and that he was struggling with some new idea.
"Did you say, Mrs. Fairchild," he asked my wife, "that Miss Debree is a
teacher? It seems very odd."
"No; I said she taught in one of our schools. I don't think she is exactly
a teacher."
"Not intending always to teach?"
"I don't suppose she has any definite intentions, but I never think of her
as a teacher."
"She's so bright, and--and interesting, don't you think? So American?"
"Yes; Miss Debree is one of the exceptions."
"Oh, I didn't mean that all American women were as clever as Miss
Debree."
"Thank you," said my wife. And Mr. Lyon looked as if he couldn't see
why she should thank him.

The cottage in which Margaret lived with her aunt, Miss Forsythe, was
not far from our house. In summer it was very pretty, with its
vine-shaded veranda across the front; and even in winter, with the
inevitable raggedness of deciduous vines, it had an air of refinement, a
promise which the cheerful interior more than fulfilled. Margaret's
parting word to my wife the night before had been that she thought her
aunt would like to see the "chrysalis earl," and as Mr. Lyon had
expressed a desire to see something more of what he called the "gentry"
of New England, my wife ended their afternoon walk at Miss
Forsythe's.
It was one of the winter days which are rare in New England, but of
which there had been a succession all through the Christmas holidays.
Snow had not yet come, all the earth was brown and frozen, whichever
way you looked the interlacing branches and twigs of the trees made a
delicate lace-work, the sky was gray-blue, and the low-sailing sun had
just enough heat to evoke moisture from the frosty ground and suffuse
the atmosphere into softness, in which all the landscape became poetic.
The phenomenon known as "red sunsets" was faintly repeated in the
greenish crimson glow along the violet hills, in which Venus burned
like a jewel.
There was a fire smoldering on the hearth in the room they entered,
which seemed to be sitting-room, library, parlor, all in one; the old
table of oak, too substantial for ornament, was strewn with late
periodicals and pamphlets--English, American, and French--and with
books which lay unarranged as they were thrown down from recent
reading. In the centre was a bunch of red roses in a pale-blue Granada
jug. Miss Forsythe rose from a seat in the western window, with a book
in her hand, to greet her callers. She was slender, like Margaret, but
taller, with soft brown eyes and hair streaked with gray, which,
sweeping plainly aside from her forehead in a fashion then antiquated,
contrasted finely with the flush of