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You have always accused me of suspecting people, and attributing bad motives; and here you've refused even to give the poor man the benefit of the doubt. He merely wanted to save his savage pride with you, and that's all he wants to do with Burnamy. How could it hurt the poor boy to know that Stoller doesn't blame him? Why should you refuse to give his message to Burnamy?
"I wonder," he said, "how long it'll take'em, over here, to catch on to our way of having pictures?" Burnamy had come to his newspaper work since illustrated journalism was established, and he had never had any shock from it at home, but so sensitive is youth to environment that, after four days in Europe, the New York paper Stoller had laid down was already hideous to him.
My name's Otterson: I'm from out in Iowa." March gave him his name, and added that he was from New York. "Yes. I thought you was Eastern. But that wasn't an Eastern man you was just with?" "No; he's from Chicago. He's a Mr. Stoller." "Not the buggy man?" "I believe he makes buggies." "Well, you do meet everybody here." The Iowan was silent for a moment, as if, hushed by the weighty thought.
He knew that he was right in refusing; but he knew that Stoller was right, too, and that he had not meant the logic of what he had said in his letter, and of what Burnamy had let him imply. He braved Stoller's onset, and he left his presence untouched, but feeling as little a moral hero as he well could.
They did not pay voluntarily in either case; but it might be proof of progress that they no longer fought the customs officials. "Then you believe in free trade," said Stoller, severely. "No. I am just inquiring which is the best way of enforcing the tariff laws."
Stoller at Cuxhaven, and he begged the Marches to let him engage rooms for them at the hotel where he was going to stay with him. After they reached Hamburg they had flying glimpses of him and of others in the odious rivalry to get their baggage examined first which seized upon all, and in which they no longer knew one another, but selfishly struggled for the good-will of porters and inspectors.
A large man of unmistakable American make, but with so little that was of New England or New York in his presence that she might not at once have thought him American, lounged toward them with a quill toothpick in the corner of his mouth. At his approach Burnamy turned, and with a flush said: "Oh! Let me introduce Mr. Stoller, Mrs. March."
"Really, I don't know," said Burnamy, with a touch of impatience. They had not met the evening before on the best of terms. Stoller had expected Burnamy twenty-four hours earlier, and had shown his displeasure with him for loitering a day at Leipsic which he might have spent at Carlsbad; and Burnamy had been unsatisfactory in accounting for the delay.
Her husband always denied that it existed, or if it did that it was anything but Burnamy's effort to get on common ground with an inferior whom fortune had put over him. The young fellow talked with Stoller, and tried to bring him into the range of the general conversation.
Still it was amusing, and they were patient of Burnamy's delay till he could get a morning off from Stoller and go with them to the Posthof. He met Mrs. March in the reading-room, where March was to join them on his way from the springs with his bag of bread.
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