The Lightning Conductor Discovers America

								

goodness, I see now I can safely retreat in good order back to
twenty-five, and stay there for some time to come. I always did feel
that if girl or woman found a nice, suitable age, she ought to stick to
it!
That's all about us, I think. So, speaking of girls, I'll tell you about
the one I mentioned. I want to tell you, because Jack and I are both
passionately interested and perhaps a little curious. Consequently I
expect her fate and ours, as the palmists say, will be mixed together
while we live on Long Island. In that case, she's sure to be served up
to you toasted, iced, sugared, and spiced, in future letters, so she may
as well be introduced to you now: "The Countess of Lane--Miss Patricia
Moore." Nice name, isn't it? Almost as nice as yours before you were
married to Monty. She has informed me, however, that she hates the
Patricia part because it sounds as if she turned up her nose in pride of
birth, whereas God turned it up when He made her--or else her nurse let
her lie on it when she was asleep. Anyhow, it's tilted just right, to
make her look like one of those wonderful girls on American magazine
covers, with darling little profiles that show the long curve of lashes
on their off, as well as their near, eyelid. You know that engaging
effect?
I have been invited to call her "Patty," or "Pat," both of which names
were in use at the French convent school she has lately left. But I
think she will have to be "Patsey" for me, as to my mind it's more
endearing. And "endearing" is a particularly suitable adjective for her.
Constantly, when looking at the creature, I find myself wanting to hum,
"Believe me, if all those endearing young charms," etc. There are simply
crowds of them--charms, I mean. Big blue eyes under those eyelashes,
and above them, too, for the under lashes are a special feature; clouds
of black wavy hair; and milky-white skin such as true Irish beauties
have in poems, where it's not so difficult as in real life. This girl is
American, not Irish, but she's certainly the Beauty of the ship.
She is the happiest thing you ever saw: and apparently she's coming
home (she calls it "home," though she hasn't seen America since she was
ten) as a conquering hero comes marching into a blaze of glory. All the
same, I'm sorry for her. I have a sort of impression--but why be a
croaking raven? I really don't see why! Every prospect pleases, and
there's no reason man should be particularly vile. When I allude thus
flippantly to "man," I refer to Papa Moore. I suppose when one comes to
analyze that "sort of an impression" the danger-note is sounded to my
heart by the girl's description of her father.
Not that she calls him "father," or even "papa," or "dad." She calls him
"Larry," his name being Laurence. She worships the ground he walks on,
she says, which is sweet of her, as very little of it has been walked on
in her neighbourhood for the last nine years.