“It might be, I suppose. Sometimes I resent it—being regarded as so safe. That might suggest that I am not complacent about it.”
Miss Rittingway was holding a pink parasol between her and a brilliant but not vehement sun. The faint flush which she gained from the silk glorified a naturally brilliant complexion. Miss Rittingway was easily the prettiest woman in the impromptu and somewhat heterogeneous coaching party. I had been conscious of a certain quality in her which, now that she had used the word “safe,” made her more enigmatical than before. It was evident that her safeness was something more than discretion, a quality which we find so happily illustrated in the American girl. It was not merely a sense of proportion of which her sense of humor gave so true a sign. Her attitude of mind made me think of the remark of a modern dramatic teacher before a class of young women. “Ladies,” he said, “you always must distribute yourself over the centre of gravity.” At the first sound of it the admonition seemed mystical and empty enough. But when he went on to explain his admonition it began to seem more mundane and applicable. No pose, he told them, could be or could seem natural and finished which did not establish an equation with the law of gravity. He showed that every plant or tree, every bird on a bough, naturally and inevitably attained a balance, and that art, continually, in every department, sought this effect of balance, of visible relation between action or repose and the obvious centre of gravity. All of which is apologetically interpolated for the purpose of suggesting that Miss Rittingway’s mental lines appeared to be beautifully distributed over the centre of gravity. A little severity to the northeast was always balanced by an alleviating grimace to the southwest, and her contagious laugh never left a doubt of the reserve assets.
“But,” I said to her, “you should be married. If you are a predestined chaperon you should outwardly conform to the conventions by reason of which there is such a thing as a chaperon. Society and the dictionary expect you to be married. They do not insist, any more than society does in the case of the parson and the doctor. But they favor and expect.”
“You see I am in my novitiate,” said Miss Rittingway, looking at the palm of her left glove. “I am not yet ready to take the veil.”
“Meanwhile,” I said, “you do not seem to have accumulated any prejudices against the office. It sits lightly upon you. The robes of your responsibility flow gracefully. There is something which I have no doubt is typical in your unmarried chaperonage. You may not suspect just what there is of end-of-the-century character in your situation. We have had a lot of talk about chaperons, from which one might think they had just been invented. I am wondering whether you have any definite theories about chaperons.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t. I don’t think they are an altogether foolish idea, and I don’t think that they can be taken quite seriously either—perhaps I mean solemnly. Certainly a chaperon who took herself solemnly would scarcely fit into our American scheme.”
“As for that, no one who takes himself solemnly fits very well into our American scheme, though I have noticed that we Americans take many things seriously which we assume to carry with lightness, even with levity. I often suspect that we differ more from other peoples in our insistence upon this appearance of lightness than in our actual social qualities.”