“You see, you can’t get away from the ‘old unhappy things,’” said Hugh, at last leaving his books and coming to join the group at the piano. “It’s always the same two minor chords we have in every pathetic song or story—love and war—in some form!”
“Yes,” said Mr. Armstrong, “see how the American war struck into life the latent possibilities of pathos and poetry in the practical American people.”
“Oh, by the way, Kate,” said Nellie, “don’t you remember that Mr. Winthrop we met at Old Orchard last summer, with whom you used to have so many arguments about the North and South, and all the rest of it? I think he made a convert of you.”
“Nonsense!” said Kate; “but what of him?”
“Oh, he called here two or three weeks ago in the course of a tour he was making, and he asked most particularly for you. I really believe he was going to look you up; and you were away from home. What a pity!”
“Indeed, I think it very unlikely that he would do anything of the kind. It would be quite out of his way,” said Kate, nonchalantly.
“Well, I do think he meant to do so,” returned Nellie. “He made most particular inquiries about just how to get there.”
“I shall certainly be very much surprised to hear that he took any such trouble. Was he as argumentative as ever?”
“No, for most of his time here was spent in making the inquiries I referred to!” retorted Nellie, rather mischievously. “I only wonder you have not stumbled across him in the course of your travels.”
Hugh had looked up with a sudden air of interest. “I noticed the name of Winthrop in the register of the Clifton, only a few days before we arrived.”