Just then there came into the picture-gallery, where they were wasting a pleasant morning, a young man to whom Surrey gave the slightest of recognitions,—well-dressed, booted, and gloved, yet lacking the nameless something which marks the gentleman. His glance, as it rested on Surrey, held no love, and, indeed, was rather malignant.
"That fellow," said Surrey, indicating him, "has a queer story connected with him. He was discharged from my father's employ to give place to a man who could do his work better; and the strange part of it"—he watched her with an amused smile to see what effect the announcement would have upon her Virginia ladyship—"is that number two is a black man."
A sudden heat flushed her cheeks: "Do you tell me your father made room for a black man in his employ, and at the expense of a white one?"
"It is even so."
"Is he there now?"
Surrey's beautiful Saxon face crimsoned. "No: he is not," he said reluctantly.
"Ah! did he, this black man,—did he not do his work well?"
"Admirably."
"Is it allowable, then, to ask why he was discarded?"
"It is allowable, surely. He was dismissed because the choice lay between him and seven hundred men."