Can you see my father’s face that sunny March day,—­Charter Day it was,—­when we told him we were engaged? (My father being the conventional, traditional sort who had never let me have a real “caller” even, lest I become interested in boys and think of matrimony too young!) Carl Parker was the first male person who was ever allowed at my home in the evening.  He came seldom, since I was living in Berkeley most of the time, and anyway, we much preferred prowling all over our end of creation, servant-girl-and-policeman fashion.  Also, when I married, according to father it was to be some one, preferably an attorney of parts, about to become a judge, with a large bank account.  Instead, at eighteen, I and this almost-unknown-to-him Senior stood before him and said, “We are going to be married,” or words to that general effect.  And—­here is where I want you to think of the expression on my conservative father’s face.

Fairly early in the conversation he found breath to say, “And what, may I ask, are your prospects?”

“None, just at present.”

“And where, may I ask, are you planning to begin this married career you seem to contemplate?”

“In Persia.”

Can you see my father? “Persia?”

“Yes, Persia.”

“And what, for goodness’ sake, are you two going to do in Persia?”

“We don’t know just yet, of course, but we’ll find something.”

I can see my father’s point of view now, though I am not sure but that I shall prefer a son-in-law for our daughter who would contemplate absolute uncertainty in Persia in preference to an assured legal profession in Oakland, California.  It was two years before my father became at all sympathetic, and that condition was far from enthusiastic.  So it was a great joy to me to have him say, a few months before his death, “You know, Cornelia, I want you to understand that if I had had the world to pick from I’d have chosen Carl Parker for your husband.  Your marriage is a constant source of satisfaction to me.”

I saw Carl Parker lose his temper once, and once only.  It was that first year that we knew each other.  Because there was such a difference between his age and mine, the girls in my sorority house refused to believe there could be anything serious about our going together so much, and took great pains to assure me in private that of course Carl meant nothing by his attentions,—­to which I agreed volubly,—­and they scolded him in private because it would spoil a Freshman to have a Senior so attentive.  We always compared notes later, and were much amused.

But words were one thing, actions another.  Since there could be nothing serious in our relationship, naturally there was no reason why we should be left alone.  If there was to be a rally or a concert, the Senior sitting at the head of the dinner-table would ask, “How many are going to-night with a man?” Hands.  “How many of the girls are going together?” Hands.  Then, to me, “Are you going with Carl?” A faint “Yes.”  “Then we’ll all go along with you.”  Carl stood it twice—­twice he beheld this cavalcade bear away in our wake; then he gritted his teeth and announced, “Never again!”