The Professor's House
Frenchman, a lieutenant attached to the French
Embassy, who came to the Smithsonian often on
business connected with this same International
Exposition. He was nice and polite to Virginia,
and she introduced him to me.
We used to walk
down along the Potomac together. He studied my
photographs and asked me such intelligent questions
about everything that it was a pleasure to talk to
him. He had a fine attitude about it all; he was
thoughtful, critical, and respectful. I feel sure he'd
have gone back to New Mexico with me if he'd had
the money. He was even poorer than I.
I was utterly ashamed to go home to Roddy, dead broke after all the money I'd spent, and without a thing to show for it. I hung on in Washington through May, trying to get a job of some sort, to at least earn my fare home. My letters to Blake had been pretty blue for some time back. If I'd been sensible, I'd have kept my troubles to myself. He was easily discouraged, and I knew that. At last I had to write him for money to go home. It was slow in coming, and I began to telegraph. I left Washington at last, wiser than I came. I had no plans, I wanted nothing but to get back to the mesa and live a free life and breathe free air, and never, never again to see hundreds of little black-coated men pouring out of white buildings. Queer, how much more depressing they are than workmen coming out of a factory.
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