She was rather glad when Roger Patton cut in on her andsuggested that they sit out a while.
“Well，” he inquired， blinking cheerily， “how’s Carmen fromthe South？”
“Mighty fine. How’s—how’s Dangerous Dan McGrew？
Sorry， but he’s the only Northerner I know much about.”
He seemed to enjoy that.
“Of course，” he confessed， “as a professor of literature I’mnot supposed to have read Dangerous Dan McGrew.”
“Are you a native？”
“No， I’m a Philadelphian. Imported from Harvard to teachFrench. But I’ve been here ten years.”
“Nine years， three hundred an’ sixty-four days longer thanme.”
“Like it here？”
“Uh-huh. Sure do！”
“Really？”
“Well， why not？ Don’t I look as if I were havin’ a good time？”
“I saw you look out the window a minute ago—and shiver.”
“Just my imagination，” laughed Sally Carroll “I’m used tohavin’ everythin’ quiet outside an’ sometimes I look out an’ seea flurry of snow an’ it’s just as if somethin’ dead was movin’.”
He nodded appreciatively.
“Ever been North before？”
“Spent two Julys in Asheville， North Carolina.”
“Nice-looking crowd aren’t they？” suggested Patton，indicating the swirling floor.
Sally Carrol started. This had been Harry’s remark.
“Sure are！ They’re—canine.”
“What？”
She flushed.
“I’m sorry； that sounded worse than I meant it. You see Ialways think of people as feline or canine， irrespective of sex.”
“Which are you？”
“I’m feline. So are you. So are most Southern men an’ mostof these girls here.”
“What’s Harry？”
“Harry’s canine distinctly. All the men I’ve to-night seem tobe canine.”
“What does canine imply？ A certain conscious masculinityas opposed to subtlety？”
“Reckon so. I never analyzed it—only I just look at peoplean’ say ‘canine’ or ‘feline’ right off. It’s right absurd I guess.”
“Not at all. I’m interested. I used to have a theory aboutthese people. I think they’re freezing up.”
“What？”
“Well， they’re growing’ like Swedes—Ibsenesque， youknow. Very gradually getting gloomy and melancholy. It’sthese long winters. Ever read Ibsen？”
She shook her head.
“Well， you find in his characters a certain brooding rigidity.
They’re righteous， narrow， and cheerless， without infinitepossibilities for great sorrow or joy.”
“Without smiles or tears？”
“Exactly. That’s my theory. You see there are thousands ofSwedes up here. They come， I imagine， because the climate isvery much like their own， and there’s been a gradual mingling.
There’re probably not half a dozen here to-night， but—we’vehad four Swedish governors. Am I boring you？”
“I’m mighty interested.”
“Your future sister-in-law is half Swedish. Personally I likeher， but my theory is that Swedes react rather badly on us as awhole. Scandinavians， you know， have the largest suicide ratein the world.”
“Why do you live here if it’s so depressing？”
“Oh， it doesn’t get me. I’m pretty well cloistered， and Isuppose books mean more than people to me anyway.”
“But writers all speak about the South being tragic. Youknow—Spanish se？oritas， black hair and daggers an’ hauntingmusic.”
He shook his head.
“No， the Northern races are the tragic races—they don’tindulge in the cheering luxury of tears.”
Sally Carrol thought of her graveyard. She supposed thatthat was vaguely what she had meant when she said it didn’tdepress her.
“The Italians are about the gayest people in the world—butit’s a dull subject，” he broke off. “Anyway， I want to tell youyou’re marrying a pretty fine man.”
Sally Carrol was moved by an impulse of confidence.
“I know. I’m the sort of person who wants to be taken careof after a certain point， and I feel sure I will be.”
“Shall we dance？ You know，” he continued as they rose，“it’s encouraging to find a girl who knows what she’s marryingfor. Nine-tenths of them think of it as a sort of walking into amoving-picture sunset.”
She laughed and liked him immensely.
Two hours later on the way home she nestled near Harry inthe back seat.
“Oh， Harry，” she whispered “it’s so co-old！”
“But it’s warm in here， daring girl.”
“But outside it’s cold； and oh， that howling wind！”
She buried her face deep in his fur coat and trembledinvoluntarily as his cold lips kissed the tip of her ear.
IV
The first week of her visit passed in a whirl. She had herpromised toboggan-ride at the back of an automobile througha chill January twilight. Swathed in furs she put in a morningtobogganing on the country-club hill； even tried skiing， tosail through the air for a glorious moment and then land ina tangled laughing bundle on a soft snow-drift. She liked allthe winter sports， except an afternoon spent snow-shoeingover a glaring plain under pale yellow sunshine， but she soonrealized that these things were for children—that she wasbeing humored and that the enjoyment round her was only areflection of her own.
At first the Bellamy family puzzled her. The men werereliable and she liked them； to Mr. Bellamy especially， withhis iron-gray hair and energetic dignity， she took an immediatefancy， once she found that he was born in Kentucky； this madeof him a link between the old life and the new. But toward thewomen she felt a definite hostility. Myra， her future sister-inlaw，seemed the essence of spiritless conversationality. Herconversation was so utterly devoid of personality that SallyCarrol， who came from a country where a certain amount ofcharm and assurance could be taken for granted in the women，was inclined to despise her.
“If those women aren’t beautiful，” she thought， “they’renothing. They just fade out when you look at them. They’reglorified domestics. Men are the centre of every mixed group.”
Lastly there was Mrs. Bellamy， whom Sally Carroldetested. The first day’s impression of an egg had beenconfirmed—an egg with a cracked， veiny voice and such anungracious dumpiness of carriage that Sally Carrol felt thatif she once fell she would surely scramble. In addition， Mrs.