“Why, how shabby the street is!” said Isabel, at last.  When I landed, after being abroad, I remember that Broadway impressed me with its splendor.”

“Ah I but you were merely coming from Europe then; and now you arrive from Burton, and are contrasting this poor Broadway with Washington Street.  Don’t be hard upon it, Isabel; every street can’t be a Boston street, you know,” said Basil.  Isabel, herself a Bostonian of great intensity both by birth and conviction, believed her husband the only man able to have thoroughly baffled the malignity of the stars in causing him to be born out of Boston; yet he sometimes trifled with his hardly achieved triumph, and even showed an indifference to it, with an insincerity of which there can be no doubt whatever.

“O stuff!” she retorted, “as if I had any of that silly local pride!  Though you know well enough that Boston is the best place in the world.  But Basil!  I suppose Broadway strikes us as so fine, on coming ashore from Europe, because we hardly expect anything of America then.”

“Well, I don’t know.  Perhaps the street has some positive grandeur of its own, though it needs a multitude of people in it to bring out its best effects.  I’ll allow its disheartening shabbiness and meanness in many ways; but to stand in front of Grace Church, on a clear day,—­a day of late September, say,—­and look down the swarming length of Broadway, on the movement and the numbers, while the Niagara roar swelled and swelled from those human rapids, was always like strong new wine to me.  I don’t think the world affords such another sight; and for one moment, at such times, I’d have been willing to be an Irish councilman, that I might have some right to the pride I felt in the capital of the Irish Republic.  What a fine thing it must be for each victim of six centuries of oppression to reflect that he owns at least a dozen Americans, and that, with his fellows, he rules a hundred helpless millionaires!”

Like all daughters of a free country, Isabel knew nothing about politics, and she felt that she was getting into deep water; she answered buoyantly, but she was glad to make her weariness the occasion of hailing a stage, and changing the conversation.  The farther down town they went the busier the street grew; and about the Astor House, where they alighted, there was already a bustle that nothing but a fire could have created at the same hour in Boston.  A little farther on the steeple of Trinity rose high into the scorching sunlight, while below, in the shadow that was darker than it was cool, slumbered the old graves among their flowers.

“How still they lie!” mused the happy wife, peering through the iron fence in passing.

“Yes, their wedding-journeys are ended, poor things!” said Basil; and through both their minds flashed the wonder if they should ever come to something like that; but it appeared so impossible that they both smiled at the absurdity.