"Very much, for a time—for many times, I might say. I should like to travel there yearly. I hope it may be possible for me to do so. But I would not live out of my own country."
"Because you prefer it as a residence—or from a sense of duty?"
He demurred. "The associations of early life have a strong hold on one, and there are special reasons in my case why—" Here he broke off; then began anew: "Of course, there are things I dislike, things I deplore, in my own country; but she has a great future before her, and it behooves every American to do his best to advance that future; so that the generation that follows may be richer than the present, in wisdom and in worth."
"Not only in wealth?"
"You have been told that is the only god we worship? Well, that is true, perhaps, of the majority—not of all. And this god, when he has been won by the self-made man, is generally a very munificent god with us. Where will you find colleges, hospitals, libraries, galleries, the gift of private individuals, to the same extent as with us? Every city has its record of them—a record to be proud of."
"I see I shall have to strike a balance in my judgment between you and Mr. Ferrars. He is pessimist, and you are optimist, as regards your country."
"I do not know Mr. Ferrars," said the young man, dryly. "But it is a cheap way of showing your superiority, to decry your own nation and point out all its shortcomings."
"There is such a thing as exaggerated patriotism that will not admit shortcomings. As a nation, you are so over-sensitive to criticism. Why, you will not allow one of your own best writers to represent certain types, to laugh at certain follies, without crying out that he is unpatriotic! The whole stock in trade of Dickens and Thackeray was laughing at our shams and vulgarities, and who ever thought of bringing such a charge against them?"
"We are over-sensitive, but then we are very young, remember."
Here a slight accident interrupted their progress. Mrs. Courtly was emerging from the main gangway just as Miss Ballinger and her companion crossed it, and a lurch of the vessel, for the wind had been gradually rising and the sea was no longer perfectly smooth, sent the unprepared lady, adroit and nimble as she was, into the young man's arms. She was a small, slight woman, exquisitely built and proportioned, no longer in her first youth, with a pale face lit by a wonderful smile, which recalled to Grace Leonardo da Vinci's enigmatical "Joconde."