I didn’t feel very happy.  I couldn’t seem to keep my mind on the play.  I became conscious, after a while, that that was due less to my lovely company than my boots.  They were sweet to look upon, as smooth as skin, but fitted ten time as close.  I got oblivious to the play and the girl and the other people and everything but my boots until—­I hitched one partly off.  The sensation was sensuously perfect:  I couldn’t help it.  I had to get the other off, partly.  Then I was obliged to get them off altogether, except that I kept my feet in the legs so they couldn’t get away.

From that time I enjoyed the play.  But the first thing I knew the curtain came down, like that, without my notice, and—­I hadn’t any boots on.  What’s more, they wouldn’t go on.  I tugged strenuously.  And the people in our row got up and fussed and said things until the peach and I simply had to move on.

We moved—­the girl on one arm and the boots under the other.

We walked home that way, sixteen blocks, with a retinue a mile long:  Every time we passed a lamp-post, death gripped one at the throat.  But we, got home—­and I had on white socks.

If I live to be nine hundred and ninety-nine years old I don’t suppose I could ever forget that walk.  I, remember, it about as keenly as the chagrin I suffered on another occasion.

At one time in our domestic history we had a colored butler who had a failing.  He could never remember to ask people who came to the door to state their business.  So I used to suffer a good many calls unnecessarily.

One morning when I was especially busy he brought me a card engraved with a name I did not know.  So I said, “What does he wish to see me for?” and Sylvester said, “Ah couldn’t ask him, sah; he, wuz a genlinun.”  “Return instantly,” I thundered, “and inquire his mission.  Ask him what’s his game.”  Well, Sylvester returned with the announcement that he had lightning-rods to sell.  “Indeed,” said I, “things are coming to a fine pass when lightning-rod agents send up engraved cards.”  “He has pictures,” added Sylvester.  “Pictures, indeed!  He maybe peddling etchings.  Has he a Russia leather case?” But Sylvester was too frightened to remember.  I said; “I am going down to make it hot for that upstart!”

I went down the stairs, working up my temper all the way.  When I got to the parlor I was in a fine frenzy concealed beneath a veneer of frigid courtesy.  And when I looked in the door, sure enough he had a Russia leather case in his hand.  But I didn’t happen to notice that it was our Russia leather case.

And if you’d believe me, that man was sitting with a whole gallery of etchings spread out before him.  But I didn’t happen to notice that they were our etchings, spread out by some member of my family for some unguessed purpose.

Very curtly I asked the gentleman his business.  With a surprised, timid manner he faltered that he had met my wife and daughter at Onteora, and they had asked him to call.  Fine lie, I thought, and I froze him.