The general returned to the table. "All serene along the Potomac," said he, thrusting his hands into his pockets and peering into the basket with renewed hope. Henrietta smiled gaily. She had pushed aside her auto veil, her cheeks were flushed with the joy of the adventure and her eyes bright. "Father," said she, "in all our lives, we have never had an adventure before, because you persist in using those blue books." The general laughed and helped himself to a sandwich. Billy opened the dresser and peered gingerly in, her small nose wrinkled for any unforeseen emergency. She had taken off her hat, and her soft yellow hair, bound back by a black velvet snood, escaped around her temples in tiny waves. Her eyes, thought the Watermelon, were brighter than the lamp upon the table and her laughing, kissable mouth redder than the crimson lips of the fair creatures in the gay calendars on the wall. Her hand upon the latch of the door was so near his own, that he was tempted to put his on it, but instead slipped his into his pocket with a delicacy he did not recognize in himself. She was a girl, young and sweet and attractive, and because she was attractive, she had been flung into the maw of the Street, a victim of the age’s insane desire for money and more money. Each dainty curl, each flash and disappearance of her single dimple had been reckoned as so much in dollars and cents. So the Watermelon put his hand in his pocket and only watched her with poorly veiled admiration. "Do you know what I am looking for?" she asked, glancing at him, her eyes full of mischief. "For the family silver," said the Watermelon. "We might as well take some souvenir of our visit." "I don’t believe the family silver is silver," said she. "I am trying to find a bucket which you can take to the well and fill for tea. It will give you an appetite." "We will let Alphonse go for the water," said the Watermelon, turning over the articles on the dusty, crowded shelves. "The general sees to the cars. We will give Alphonse a chance to earn his pay." "You should do something to earn yours," said she. "What is mine?" he asked, trying to see into her eyes. "We must find that bucket," said she, gazing innocently upward at the higher shelves. "I love to muss around among other people’s things. They are so much more interesting than your own. I wonder why." "We can’t be amused with ourselves and our things," said the Watermelon. "We are too important. Father used to say nothing else was really important but ourselves and what affected us." Henrietta, fussing with the alcohol lamp at the table, laughed. "Why didn’t your father write a book," she asked, "a philosophy? It would have been a deal more interesting than James or Spencer or Decant." "He used to say that a man who knew life never wrote about it. It would be too painful. It wouldn’t sell."