“I’m afraid I haven’t. I don’t think they are an altogether foolish idea, and I don’t think that they can be taken quite seriously either—perhaps I mean solemnly. Certainly a chaperon who took herself solemnly would scarcely fit into our American scheme.” “As for that, no one who takes himself solemnly fits very well into our American scheme, though I have noticed that we Americans take many things seriously which we assume to carry with lightness, even with levity. I often suspect that we differ more from other peoples in our insistence upon this appearance of lightness than in our actual social qualities.” [Illustration] “But isn’t that a social quality with us?” demanded Miss Rittingway, “this insistence upon an external lightness? The American is funny about some things.” “I presume he is a bigger humorist than he commonly suspects.” “He hates to admit that humanity is about the same sort of thing here as elsewhere. He despises the old labels. He believes in liberty as if he had patented the notion, and wants his children to have lots of it; but he is undoubtedly the most cautious parent in the world. He says we have no classes, and leaves the foreigner to find that we have classes as definitely set as any in the world.” “Dear me!” I cried. “Is he so sophistical as that? If the American parent is cautious he is cautious in a very liberal way. There is the Grifton girl—” At this I saw Miss Rittingway’s eyes wander in the direction of the booths as if it might be possible to estimate the situation of Mentley and his companion. “The Grifton girl,” I said, “is a very modern daughter. I should fancy that she was somewhat difficult. I mention this because it has appeared that you have a particular interest in Miss Grifton.” “I have. In a particular sense I am the chaperon of Miss Grifton. That is to say, I promised her mother, who is as delicate as one of those mothers in an old-fashioned English novel, though by no means so submissive, that I would do my best to keep Alice from being engaged to more than one man at a time.” “Is she so engaging a girl?” “It doesn’t seem to be precisely the old case of not being able to say ‘no.’ A girl who can’t say ‘no’ has only to be pretty and amiable like Alice to get into a heap of difficulty. But she _can_ say ‘no.’ She said ‘no’ to the young man her father likes.” “The faculty for saying ‘no’ to that one is often developed quite early. My friend Sudwell told me one day that his daughter had a dexterity in despising the men he liked that made him wonder whether she read his thoughts or simply had a perverted taste.”