“I must admit,” she says, “the civic patriotism of two most unfashionable persons. Old Joseph Bartholdi Michael, the Second, who is away now at the legislature of the World Government, is the head of our whole architectural project. He is something of a Smart Set person, and is in fact an old West Pointer. But the real work was done by the most unpopular Thibetan Boy and the architectural planning and imagining was by the negro John Emis. Old Joseph Bartholdi Michael, the Second, has lent his name to protect these people, and leave them unmolested in their project. As it is, he turns his appropriation over to them. The city would not give either of such a salary. It will give the Thibetan Boy a little credit, when all is over, but John Emis none at all, because he is a negro. When you go down into the streets again you will find a black stripe tucked away in some odd corner of the design of every building in The Street of Past History. If you look you will see that same stripe now, on the outer circle of towers. It goes slenderly around the fourth story and the tenth. That black stripe is the personal secret signature of John Emis, the negro architect.”
The voice of this woman beside me alters to that gentle and human tone in which she spoke of her mother, as though this city, too, has its hand somewhat on her heart. Yet she is proud and almost barks at me when I attempt any kind of understanding, and to her I am not of this city, and my sole excuse for living is that I admire her, and therefore must be forgiven every other trait in my character till she has time to mend my ways. My scalp must dangle at her belt.
“I begin to be almost reconciled to living in Springfield,” she muses, “Springfield is all society, you know, and it is hopeless to try to make it anything else. Of course there are some places where it pays to have ideas, but here a girl must conceal ideas if she has them.”
Then, in an instant, another Avanel seems to flash forth. “You think I am a snob and a fool, you silly art student, but I would die for the International Flag far sooner than people like your idol Sparrow Short.”
Avanel points out to me old Camp Lincoln, northwest, beyond the towers. There she leads the Amazonian Cavalry and the Horseshoe Brotherhood in bi-weekly drill, in preparation for the possible war against Singapore. Looming like the dome of the Taj Mahal above the trees is a gigantic world globe, which marks the center of the field. Around this shining map of everything her drills are held.
But I answer her cut: “Sparrow Short is no idol of mine, and you know it. I regard him as the best teacher of art in Springfield, but I do not accept his international views.”
“It seems to me,” she gives reply, “that you are always finding excuses for dubious revolutionaries, whose spirits and bodies are rag bags.”
About nine in the evening, there are star-chimes from all the towers. The bells are singing the song of Portia, the aviator:—“Look up at the far-off suns, Oh hearts of eternal desire.”
Avanel speaks to me in a swearing tone of voice: “I think I cut fewer people than you do. I should not be elected the head of the Amazons if I were a fool about exclusiveness. As a matter of fact I cut those who go to the parties of Mara, the daughter of the Man from Singapore. It is plain she gets those people under her roof to poison them against the world government or at least muffle their suspicions of her father’s doings and the doings of his like. You are the only person who thinks I cut loyal patriotic people.”
I am wondering why I like this Avanel. I conclude it is because of her overwhelming vanity and unbreakable pride. She has the soul of a thousand peacocks and there is a potential lioness in her beside.