I acquiesced patriotically, but not arrogantly.
"Yes—I'm American! My name's Grace Christie, and I'm a newspaper woman from—from——"
I hesitated, and she looked at me inquiringly.
"I didn't understand the name of the state?" she said.
"Because I haven't told you yet!" I laughed. "I remember other experiences in mentioning my native place to you English. You always say, 'Oh, the place where the negro minstrels come from!'"
She smiled, and her face brightened suddenly.
"The South! How nice! I love Americans!" she exclaimed, confiding the clause about her affection for my countrymen in a lowered voice, and looking around to make sure that no one heard.
Then, after this, it took her about half a minute to invite me out of my corner and to propose that I go and meet her father and mother.
"We'll find them in the library," she ventured, and we did.
"The South! How nice! We love Americans!" they both exclaimed, as we unearthed them a little while later in a corner of the reading-room. And before they had confided to me their affection for my countrymen they lowered their voices and glanced at their daughter to make sure that she was not listening. They made their observations in precisely the same tone and they looked precisely alike, except that the father had side-whiskers. They were both small and slight and very durably dressed.