The young man expressed a regret which was genuine enough, though not wholly unqualified. His older sister, Mrs. Crane, leaving just then for a trip to the White Mountains, had said:
“Charley, I am sure Mr. Clemens is after our Livy. You mustn't let him carry her off before our return.”
The idea was a disturbing one. The young man did not urge his guest to prolong his-visit. He said:
“We'll have to stand it, I guess, but you mustn't leave before to-night.”
“I ought to go by the first train,” Clemens said, gloomily. “I am in love.”
“In what!”
“In love-with your sister, and I ought to get away from here.”
The young man was now very genuinely alarmed. To him Mark Twain was a highly gifted, fearless, robust man—a man's man—and as such altogether admirable—lovable. But Olivia—Livy—she was to him little short of a saint. No man was good enough for her, certainly not this adventurous soldier of letters from the West. Delightful he was beyond doubt, adorable as a companion, but not a companion for Livy.
“Look here, Clemens,” he said, when he could get his voice. “There's a train in half an hour. I'll help you catch it. Don't wait till to-night. Go now.”
Clemens shook his head.