He Knew He Was Right

him. For the present he satisfied himself with inviting his neighbour to come and drink tea with Mrs. Spalding on the next evening but one. “The girls will be delighted, I am sure,” said he, thinking himself to be justified in this friendly familiarity by Mr. Glascock’s enthusiasm. For Mr. Spalding was clearly of opinion that, let the value of republican simplicity be what it might, an alliance with the crumbling marbles of Europe would in his niece’s circumstances be not inexpedient. Mr. Glascock accepted the invitation with alacrity, and the minister when he was closeted with his wife that evening declared his opinion that after all the Britisher meant fighting. The aunt told the girls that Mr. Glascock was coming, and in order that it might not seem that a net was being specially spread for him, others were invited to join the party. Miss Petrie consented to be there, and the Italian, Count Buonarosci, to whose presence, though she could not speak to him, Mrs. Spalding was becoming accustomed. It was painful to her to feel that she could not communicate with those around her, and for that reason she would have avoided Italians. But she had an idea that she could not thoroughly realise the advantages of foreign travel unless she lived with foreigners; and, therefore, she was glad to become intimate at any rate with the outside of Count Buonarosci.

“I think your uncle is wrong, dear,” said Miss Petrie early in the day to her friend.

“But why? He has done nothing more than what is just civil.”

“If Mr. Glascock kept a store in Broadway he would not have thought it necessary to show the same civility.”

“Yes;⁠—if we all liked the Mr. Glascock who kept the store.”

“Caroline,” said the poetess with severe eloquence, “can you put your hand upon your heart and say that this inherited title, this tinkling cymbal as I call it, has no attraction for you or yours? Is it the unadorned simple man that you welcome to your bosom, or a thing of stars and garters, a patch of parchment, the minion of a throne, the lordling of twenty descents, in which each has been weaker than that before it, the hero of a scutcheon, whose glory is in his quarterings, and whose worldly wealth comes from the sweat of serfs whom the euphonism of an effete country has learned to decorate with the name of tenants?”

But Caroline Spalding had a spirit of her own, and had already made up her mind that she would not be talked down by Miss Petrie. “Uncle Jonas,” said she, “asks him because we like him; and would do so too if he kept the store in Broadway. But if he did keep the store perhaps we should not like him.”

“I trow not,” said Miss Petrie.

Livy was much more comfortable in her tactics, and without consulting anybody sent for a hairdresser. “It’s all very well for Wallachia,” said Livy⁠—Miss Petrie’s name was Wallachia⁠—“but I know a nice sort of man when I see him, and the ways of the world are not to be altered because Wally writes poetry.”

When Mr. Glascock was announced Mrs. Spalding’s handsome rooms were almost filled, as rooms in Florence are filled⁠—obstruction in every avenue, a crowd in every corner, and a block at every doorway, not being among the customs of the place. Mr. Spalding immediately caught him⁠—intercepting him between the passages and the ladies⁠—and engaged him at once in conversation.

“Your John S. Mill is a great man,” said the minister.

“They tell me so,” said Mr. Glascock. “I don’t read what he writes myself.”

This acknowledgment seemed to the minister to be almost disgraceful, and yet he himself had never read a word of Mr. Mill’s writings. “He is a farseeing man,” continued the minister. “He is one of the few Europeans who can look forward, and see how the rivers of civilization are running on. He has understood that women must at last be put upon an equality with men.”

“Can he manage that men shall have half the babies?” said Mr. Glascock, thinking to escape by an attempt at playfulness.

But the minister was down upon him at once⁠—had him by the lappet of his coat, though he knew how important it was for his dear niece that he should allow Mr. Glascock to amuse himself this evening after another fashion. “I have an answer ready, sir, for that difficulty,” he said. “Step aside with me for a moment. The question is important, and I should be glad if you would communicate my ideas to your great philosopher. Nature, sir, has laid down certain laws, which are immutable; and, against them⁠—”

But Mr. Glascock had not come to Florence for this. There were circumstances in his present position which made him feel that he would be gratified in escaping, even at the cost of some seeming incivility. “I must go in to the ladies at once,” he said, “or I shall never get a word with them.” There came across the minister’s brow a momentary frown of displeasure, as though he felt that he were being robbed of that which was justly his own. For an instant his grasp fixed itself more tightly to the coat. It was quite within the scope of his courage to hold a struggling listener by physical strength;⁠—but he remembered that there was a purpose, and he relaxed his hold.

“I will take another opportunity,” said the minister. “As you have raised that somewhat trite objection of the bearing of children, which we in our country, sir, have altogether got over, I must put you in possession of my views on that subject; but I will find another occasion.” Then Mr. Glascock began to reflect whether an American lady, married in England, would probably want to see much of her uncle in her adopted country.

Mrs. Spalding was all smiles when her guest reached her. “We did not mean to have such a crowd of people,” she said, whispering; “but