A young man called on uncle yesterday, bearing a letter of introduction. He lives, I believe, in Baltimore, and his name is Gerald Hargreaves. His father was a friend of uncle’s, and some mutual friend who knew that uncle was over here, gave him the letter. I don’t think he was very keen about presenting it, but we are glad he did, for he seems a delightful young man. Uncle David took to him at once, and so, for the matter of that, did Aunt Lorena and I. He is an athletic young person with a general blond appearance and a nice voice. He seems modest, too, and genial. He finished college last year and has been traveling around Europe, but he means to go back home soon and settle down. He is to follow the custom of his family and go into the railroad business. Naturally, we talked about railroads a good deal, and the methods of home and foreign travel. He turned to me and said:
“What is your favorite means of travel, Miss Knox?” And before I thought how it would sound I replied:
“Oh, nag travel.”
Aunt Lorena looked rather embarrassed, but Uncle David roared.
“My niece is a true Southern mountaineer,” he said, “and she isn’t afraid of anything in the way of horseflesh.”
“Though I have been thrown,” I admitted, looking at Uncle David and thinking of the fateful day that Paprika scampered up the mountain away from Uncle David’s machine.
“Fortunately,” said Uncle David, and left the young man to figure out what that might mean.
“I’m glad you think it was fortunate, dear,” I whispered to him. He gave my hand a little squeeze under the table—we were at tea—and I felt my heart warm up. When I think that Uncle David loves me it brightens up everything; but he is a quiet man and does not say much. He likes to go his own way and amuse himself after his own fashion, and he doesn’t wish to be bothered all of the time by paying attention to those around him. As for Aunt Lorena, she takes life as it comes. She is very philosophical and patient and proud, and she sinks back into her easy feminine place and doesn’t question anything. The trouble with me is that I’m nearly bursting with questions.
“Ought I to do this? Ought I to think that? Am I making the most of my opportunities? Am I being myself, Azalea, or am I imitating these others? Am I of any use or am I just consuming good oxygen and nice food and getting in the way generally?”
That’s how I keep at it. I don’t seem to be able to give myself any rest, but must always be badgering myself like that.