Pinkney was undeniably handsome in his concentrated, alert way. He was nearly as tall as Robert, slighter-framed but heavier, with straight, light brown hair combed back from a sloping forehead. His features were more regular, less rugged than Robert’s and his gray eyes were intelligent and intense. Hamilton noticed all this as Pinkney first entered the room and wondered why Margaret had so often rejected him in favor of himself. It was Howard’s only failure.
Howard, as an officer of the home guard, somehow supererogated to himself the function of reintroducing Hamilton to his townsfolk.
“Judge, here is Captain Hamilton. Isn’t he looking splendid after his harassing experiences in France? We must have him recount them to us some evening at the club. Lieutenant Brownlow—Mr. Brownlow is one of the lieutenants in the guards. He was exempt because of fallen arches—Lieutenant Brownlow has been longing to see you and I have taken the liberty of inviting him. Of course he knows all about your splendid exploits. Mr. Jarvis, our hero has come back again. Have you a card with you? We must bring him into the Trick Track Tribe. Yes, here it is. Thank you. Give it to me when you have filled it out.”
Hamilton slipped the card into his pocket without reading it. He was becoming tired of meeting so many people. He had always looked forward to his home coming as to an opportunity for unlimited rest. And here he was in the midst of a buzz of many conversations, shaking hands, answering a hundred questions, standing up, moving around to different groups, always smiling. Of course, he understood, this was his first night at home. One had to sacrifice one’s self to the duties of society. But he heartily wished that it was over. He wished, above all, that the home guard would suddenly mobilize for some reason and that Pinkney would be called out.
In Paris he had enjoyed the salons, the stimulating exchange of ideas; but in his own home he wished to be alone with his parents, and perhaps with Margaret. His parents, he perceived, were probably wishing the same thing. They kept throwing little smiles at him and to each other and Mrs. Hamilton kept coming over to squeeze his hand. How beautiful his mother really must have been when she was, say, Margaret’s age. He loved her soft gray hair. And how distinguished his father looked, with his immaculate moustache and goatee.
Robert moved to a little group of men who were discussing some subject animatedly and sat down.
“There’s only one solution for this problem,” the fat, bald-headed little man, who had been introduced to him as Mr. Jarvis, was saying, “and that’s Americanization.”
“Americanization?” It was Pinkney’s father speaking, a heavy moustached man, with hawk-like features—Howard “took after” his mother. “Americanization? What they need is a good dose of tar and feathers. Yes, sir, good old tar and feathers. What do you think about it, Captain Hamilton?” He leaned forward in his chair.
“What is that?” asked Robert.
“Those damned foreigners,” the older Pinkney drawled. “The niggers are bad enough. But now these damned foreigners are getting too strong here.”