A Day With Robert Schumann

Lucy looked across the table at me with a face of blank horror. “O Vernon,” she cried, “what are we EVER to do? And an American at that! This is just TOO ghastly!” It’s a habit of Lucy’s, I may remark, to talk italics. I laid down my coffee-cup, and glanced back at her in surprise. “Why, what’s up?” I exclaimed, scanning the envelope close. “A letter from Oxford, surely. Mrs. Wade, of Christchurch—I thought I knew the hand. And SHE’s not an American.” “Well, look for yourself!” Lucy cried, and tossed the note to me, pouting. I took it, and read. I’m aware that I have the misfortune to be only a man, but it really didn’t strike me as quite so terrible. “DEAR MRS. HANCOCK: George has just heard that your husband and you are going for a trip to New York this summer. COULD you manage to do us a VERY GREAT kindness? I hope you won’t mind it. We have an American friend—a Miss Easterbrook, of Kansas City, niece of Professor Asa P. Easterbrook, the well-known Yale geologist—who very much wishes to find an escort across the Atlantic. If you would be so good as to take charge of her, and deliver her safely to Dr. Horace Easterbrook, of Hoboken, on your arrival in the States, you would do a good turn to her, and at the same time confer an eternal favour on “Yours very truly, “EMILY WADE