Rude indeed as was my young presumption Mrs. Church had still her cultivated patience, even her pity, for it. “We’re very crude,” she blandly remarked, “and we’re proportionately indigestible.” And lest her own refined strictures should seem to savour of the vice she deprecated she went on to explain. “There are two classes of minds, you know—those that hold back and those that push forward. My daughter and I are not pushers; we move with the slow considerate steps to which a little dignity may still cling. We like the old trodden paths; we like the old old world.” “Ah,” said I, “you know what you like. There’s a great virtue in that.” “Yes, we like Europe; we prefer it. We like the opportunities of Europe; we like the _rest_. There’s so much in that, you know. The world seems to me to be hurrying, pressing forward so fiercely, without knowing in the least where it’s going. ‘Whither?’ I often ask in my little quiet way. But I’ve yet to learn that any one can tell me.” “You’re a grand old conservative,” I returned while I wondered whether I myself might have been able to meet her question. Mrs. Church gave me a smile that was equivalent to a confession. “I wish to retain a wee bit—just a wee bit. Surely we’ve done so much we might rest a while; we might pause. That’s all my feeling—just to stop a little, to wait, to take breath. I’ve seen so many changes. I want to draw in, to draw in—to hold back, to hold back.” “You shouldn’t hold your daughter back!” I laughed as I got up. I rose not by way of closing our small discussion, for I felt my friend’s exposition of her views to be by no means complete, but in order to offer a chair to Miss Aurora, who at this moment drew near. She thanked me and remained standing, but without at first, as I noticed, really facing her parent. “You’ve been engaged with your new acquaintance, my dear?” this lady inquired. “Yes, mamma,” said the girl with a sort of prompt sweet dryness. “Do you find her very edifying?” Aurora had a silence; then she met her mother’s eyes. “I don’t know, mamma. She’s very fresh.” I ventured a respectful laugh. “Your mother has another word for that. But I must not,” I added, “be indigestibly raw.” “Ah, vous m’en voulez?” Mrs. Church serenely sighed. “And yet I can’t pretend I said it in jest. I feel it too much. We’ve been having a little social discussion,” she said to her daughter. “There’s still so much to be said. And I wish,” she continued, turning to me, “that I could give you our point of view. Don’t you wish, Aurora, that we could give him our point of view?” “Yes, mamma,” said Aurora. “We consider ourselves very fortunate in our point of view, don’t we, dearest?” mamma demanded. “Very fortunate indeed, mamma.” “You see we’ve acquired an insight into European life,” the elder lady pursued. “We’ve our place at many a European fireside. We find so much to esteem—so much to enjoy. Don’t we find delightful things, my daughter?”