“It was outrage.”
“Yes, the same kind as England’s, who burned Washington in 1812, and whom you all so deeply admire.”
She had, it seemed, no answer to this. But we trembled on the verge of a real quarrel. It was in her voice when she said:—
“I think I interrupted you.”
I pushed the risk one step nearer the verge, because of the words I wished finally to reach. “In 1812, when England burned our White House down, we did not sit in the ashes; we set about rebuilding.”
And now she burst out. “That’s not fair, that’s perfectly inexcusable! Did England then set loose on us a pack of black savages and politicians to help us rebuild? Why, this very day I cannot walk on the other side of the river, I dare not venture off the New Bridge; and you who first beat us and then unleashed the blacks to riot in a new ‘equality’ that they were no more fit for than so many apes, you sat back at ease in your victory and your progress, having handed the vote to the negro as you might have handed a kerosene lamp to a child of three, and let us crushed, breathless people cope with the chaos and destruction that never came near you. Why, how can you dare—” Once again, admirably she pulled herself up as she had done when she spoke of the President. “I mustn’t!” she declared, half whispering, and then more clearly and calmly, “I mustn’t.” And she shook her head as if shaking something off. “Nor must you,” she finished, charmingly and quietly, with a smile.
“I will not,” I assured her. She was truly noble.
“But I did think that you understood us,” she said pensively.
“Miss La Heu, when you talked to me about the President and the White House, I said that you were hard to answer. Do you remember?”
“Perfectly. I said I was glad you found me so.’