"No—merely a humble admirer of the labors of others."
"Then," added the lady, more blandly, "perhaps you will be good-natured enough to assist me."
And, after a suspicious glance toward the spot where Lady Holberton and Mr. T—— were conversing together, she adroitly placed herself in a position to give to our conversation the privacy of a diplomatic tete-a-tete.
"Could you possibly procure me some American autographs for my collection? I find a few wanting under the American head—perhaps a hundred or two."
I professed myself ready to do any thing in my power in so good a cause.
"Here is my list; I generally carry it about me. You will see those that are wanting, and very possibly may suggest others."
And as the lady spoke she drew from her pocket a roll of paper as long, and as well covered with names as any minority petition to Congress. However, I had lived too much among collectors of late to be easily dismayed. The list was headed by Black Hawk. I expressed my fears that the gallant warrior's ignorance of letters might prove an obstacle to obtaining any thing from his pen. I volunteered however to procure instead, something from a Cherokee friend of mine, the editor of a newspaper.
{Black Hawk = Black Hawk (1767-1838), an American Indian (Sac) chieftain, defeated by the U.S. Army in 1832, whose "Autobiography" (1833) became an American classic.}
"How charming!" exclaimed Miss Rowley, clasping her hands. "How very obliging of you, Mr. Howard. Are you fond of shooting? My brother's preserves are in fine order—or perhaps you are partial to yachting—"
Bowing my thanks for these amiable hints, I carelessly observed that the letter of the Cherokee editor was no sacrifice at all, for the chief and myself were regular correspondents; I had a dozen of his letters, and had just given one to Mr. T——. This intelligence evidently lessened Miss Rowley's excessive gratitude. She continued her applications, however, casting an eye on her list.