"Just my imagination," laughed Sally Carroll "I'm used to havin' everythin' quiet outside an' sometimes I look out an' see a flurry of snow an' it's just as if somethin' dead was movin'." He nodded appreciatively. "Ever been North before?" "Spent two Julys in Asheville, North Carolina." "Nice-looking crowd aren't they?" suggested Patton, indicating the swirling floor. Sally Carrol started. This had been Harry's remark. "Sure are! They're--canine." "What?" She flushed. "I'm sorry; that sounded worse than I meant it. You see I always think of people as feline or canine, irrespective of sex." "Which are you?" "I'm feline. So are you. So are most Southern men an' most of these girls here." "What's Harry?" "Harry's canine distinctly. All the men I've to-night seem to be canine." "What does canine imply? A certain conscious masculinity as opposed to subtlety?" "Reckon so. I never analyzed it--only I just look at people an' say 'canine' or 'feline' right off. It's right absurd I guess." "Not at all. I'm interested. I used to have a theory about these people. I think they're freezing up." "What?" "Well, they're growing' like Swedes--Ibsenesque, you know. Very gradually getting gloomy and melancholy. It's these long winters. Ever read Ibsen?" She shook her head. "Well, you find in his characters a certain brooding rigidity. They're righteous, narrow, and cheerless, without infinite possibilities for great sorrow or joy." "Without smiles or tears?" "Exactly. That's my theory. You see there are thousands of Swedes up here. They come, I imagine, because the climate is very much like their own, and there's been a gradual mingling. There're probably not half a dozen here to-night, but--we've had four Swedish governors. Am I boring you?" "I'm mighty interested." "Your future sister-in-law is half Swedish. Personally I like her, but my theory is that Swedes react rather badly on us as a whole. Scandinavians, you know, have the largest suicide rate in the world." "Why do you live here if it's so depressing?" "Oh, it doesn't get me. I'm pretty well cloistered, and I suppose books mean more than people to me anyway." "But writers all speak about the South being tragic. You know--Spanish señoritas, black hair and daggers an' haunting music." He shook his head. "No, the Northern races are the tragic races--they don't indulge in the cheering luxury of tears." Sally Carrol thought of her graveyard. She supposed that that was vaguely what she had meant when she said it didn't depress her. "The Italians are about the gayest people in the world--but it's a dull subject," he broke off. "Anyway, I want to tell you you're marrying a pretty fine man." Sally Carrol was moved by an impulse of confidence. "I know. I'm the sort of person who wants to be taken care of after a certain point, and I feel sure I will be."