“That is not much of an occupation. See how industrious I am. I have been reading the ‘Life and Writings of Rufus Choate.’ I am getting to be a complete Bostonian.”
“Have you read it all? I never heard of him. Who was he?”
“He was an extremely clever man. He must have been very nice, and his speeches are splendid. You ought to read them.”
“Joe, you are going to be a regular blue-stocking! The idea of spending your time in reading such stuff. Why, it would be almost better to read the parliamentary reports in the ‘Times!’ Just fancy!” Ronald laughed at the idea of any human being descending to such drudgery.
“Don’t be silly, Ronald. You do not know anything about it,” said Joe.
“Oh, it is of no use discussing the question,” answered Ronald. “You young women are growing altogether too clever, with your politics, and your philosophy, and your culture. I hate America!”
“If you really knew anything about it, you would like it very much. Besides, you have no right to say you hate it. The people here have been very good to you already. You ought not to abuse them.”
“No–not the people. But just look at that snow-storm, Joe, and tell me whether America is a place for human beings to live in.”
“It is much prettier than a Scotch mist, and ever so much clearer than a fog in London,” retorted Joe.
“But there is nothing for a fellow to do on a day like this,” said Ronald sulkily.