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I hastened to say that I would relinquish the six thousand
without a pang, confident that I could make a living anyway; but
that it would be disloyal to my good old uncle, whose bounty had
given me a college course, two years at Oxford and three at
Harvard Law School. It had also permitted me to give my services
to the United States Shipping Board without compensation.

She said she thought it was very selfish in a government to
accept a man’s whole time and give him no remuneration; that the
Secretary of the Treasury had only to say to the banks, “Let
there be money,” and there was money. There would be plenty for
everybody if only the engravers and laborers at the Mint would
not strike.

I reminded her that men were remunerated sufficiently in being
allowed to serve their country in time of war.

She returned that she thought that point of view foolish and
fantastic, but if she found, after a year, that her daughter’s
peace of mind was threatened, would I then change my name and
live on Dorothea’s income until I could establish myself in the
practice of the law? She said that I must acknowledge that this
was a ridiculously generous proposition and one that neither my
talents nor my station in life merited.

I replied that the proposition meant to me that I should simply
be selling myself and buying her daughter, and that I declined
to accept it.

(“Oh, Charlotte!” the girl interrupted with a catch in her throat, “don’t you think that was splendid and clever, too?”)

Your mother said that she wished to take the matter into
consideration during your absence [so the letter ran on], and
just as we were rising the Philadelphia aunt came in from one
door and General X, Senator Y, and Lord Z from another.

They are at the moment three of the most significant figures in
the moving picture of Washington society, and all women pursue
them. They beamed at me as if they had been commandeered for
that special purpose, and Senator Y said jovially: “How are you,
Duke? Glad to see you. Are you free to dine with us?”

I hastily turned to your mother, saying: “I was just going to
ask you and your sister if you would dine with me.”

Lord Z, who was at Balliol with me, you remember, said: “Then
perhaps you will allow us to come to your table for coffee,
Hogg?” Your mother gazed at him, astounded that his noble tongue
could utter the name. Then she actually and gracefully “fell”
for the dinner, lured by the bait of the post-prandial coffee
with the distinguished trio, and the Philadelphia aunt kept
things going serenely. She is a delightful person and will be a
perfect companion for your mother when–you know when–when she
needs one–and I no longer do!

(“There never was a man who said things like Duke!” interpolated Dolly
ecstatically.)

All would have gone swimmingly to the end had not a page
suddenly entered the room bawling: “Mr. Hogg wanted at the
telephone: Mr. Hogg? Telephone message for Mr. HOGG!”

Only capitals can give an idea of the volume of voice. My
ear-drum, grown painfully sensitive since I met your mother,
echoed and reechoed with the tone as I threaded my way through
the crowded room, followed by every eye, while I imagined people
saying: “I wonder if he’s called to the stockyard?” (It is
queer, but I never felt this way in Oxford, for they still
remember Hogg, the Scottish poet, and I hung myself to his
revered coat-tails.)

The telephone message was from my secretary, and healed my
wounded vanity, for it came from the British Embassy conveying
the thanks of the Foreign Office for Mr. Hogg’s friendly and
helpful action in conducting negotiations for the chartering of
ex-enemy ships lying in South American ports.