The Day of His Youth

								

expected guests. I brought it out, and then went back for the little
glasses; and my father served them all. She held her glass in her hand,
and I feared she would not drink; but suddenly, behind the others, she
lifted the glass, bowed to me, and a quick smile ran over her face. And
then she set it to her lips, still looking at me. It was I who took the
glasses away, and hers, which had not been emptied, I left inside my
tent. (O, you know, my friend, my other self, what these things are to
me! only you! only you!)
"This is Homeric," said Mrs. Montrose. "Bread and wine. The flesh is
happily absent."
"Did you expect the blood of 'muttons, beefs, or goats'?" asked my
father. "Sacrifice may come later."
Then followed a great deal of talk; but I have not been used to hearing
so many people speaking at once, and I could scarcely follow, and
cannot at all remember it. But while I sat fearing every instant that
they would go, my heart bounded again, for Mrs. Montrose asked us both
to row over to their camp and lunch with them. My father at once
refused, sternly I thought, but he added, without looking at me,--
"I cannot answer for my son."
"O, yes, I will go," I cried. I must have been very eager, for they all
laughed; all except my father, and he replied, "So be it."
They said good-by to him, and fluttered down to the wharf; and I pushed
off my boat with the rest.
"Good-by!" I called to him, but he only waved his hand and turned away.
[Sidenote: From Zoe Montrose to Francis Hume]
Certainly I meant every word I said. The moment I saw what you had
written for that stupid game, I knew you had a marvelous facility of
expression. No doubt your father has nourished it by making you write
so many reams of criticism; but it is evident that you had a gift in
the beginning, the golden gift in the hand. And so, as I am one who
thinks no fortune happier than that of the artisan trained to hammer
out a phrase, what is more natural than that I should long for you to
ascend from prentice to workman? Therefore write me,--"every day i' the
hour," if you will,--and by all means drop the letters in the hollow
tree. Here in this forest is the happy reverse of the world-shield; let
conventions also be turned topsy-turvy, and letter-carriers be eschewed
for a box of living oak and a cushion of crumbling mould. I will be
your playmate, your comrade; not your friend. I hate the word between
men and women. It is a mantle for mawkish sentiment, the kind that
stalks about solemnly like a Puritan at a play, seeing all and
affecting his own superiority. But, an you will, be my comrade only;
let the Forest of Arden spring up again greenly, and let us play at
simplicity and outspoken joy; all for the sake of developing your
style! But, first of all, I do not like your reason for asking me to
write to you; you cannot see me alone, forsooth! and you have a
thousand questions which the others give us no time to ask and answer.