"Then you must choose a fair-weather season for your voyage," pressed Charlie, maintaining an excellent gravity.
"But you can't always tell," said I. "Often the storms don't come till you get out to sea."
VII
THE GLORY OF THEIR STRENGTH
We went to the theatre that night, Charlie and I, as we had arranged. But one-half of us didn't enjoy it very much. The play was a light, frivolous thing, and I so defined it to Charlie before the second act was through.
"I thought you liked the gay and festive sort," he said; "I do believe this preachers' convocation is having a depressing influence on you," which remark I resented not a little; whatever my weaknesses were, I knew susceptibility to the clergy was not one of them.
"Nothing of the sort," I retorted; "but the thing isn't true to life—life was never one long cackle like that. Besides, they haven't any fire on, and it's cold—and I'm going home after the next act."
Which I did, sure enough, and took Charlie with me. Our seats were near the front; and I must confess I did enjoy our procession down the aisle. I could see the looks of admiration on every hand—of envy, too, from some maidenly and matronly eyes.
Charlie was so tall and straight and handsome, and had such an original head of hair. Besides, most of our townspeople knew he was an aristocrat—our little city made a specialty of aristocracy—and absolutely all of them knew that he was rich. The darkies had a good deal to do with this, I fancy. My admirer had come from far away, from a city, too, and all the sons of Ham invest the stranger from a distance with the glory of wealth untold. But white folks aren't so very different after all; it's a very odd sort of girl that doesn't take some satisfaction out of these far-travelled pilgrims that come hundreds of miles, and stay several days at the best hotel, just to worship at her feet. A local sweetheart is all very well in his way—but the whole town doesn't know when he comes. Besides, it's so convenient for the local to pay his homage that it may mean very much or very little. But when a lover comes across a couple of states, leaving behind him a big city—and all the girls that are sorry to see him go, that's the best of it—that is something else, as we used to say in the South. It means his temperature must be about a hundred and twenty in the shade, as I have heard Uncle Henry say many a time.
Yes, I was proud enough of Charlie as we walked the full length of the theatre that night, he keeping close behind and carrying my white opera cloak on his arm. I remember an old maid—and they are the best authority on such matters—telling me that Charlie had a very caressing way of carrying a cloak, as if it were a sacred thing. I have thought quite a little over this, and I believe there's something in it.