Clementina shrugged her shoulders carelessly. “I dare say—but I don't think that NOW”—
“Who said anything about NOW?” retorted her father, with a return of his old abruptness. After a pause he said: “I'll go down and see him first, and then send for you. You can keep him for the opening and dinner, if you like.”
Meantime Lawrence Grant, serenely unsuspicious of these domestic confidences, had been shown into the parlor—a large room furnished in the same style as the drawing-room of the hotel he had just quitted. He had ample time to note that it was that wonderful Second Empire furniture which he remembered that the early San Francisco pioneers in the first flush of their wealth had imported directly from France, and which for years after gave an unexpected foreign flavor to the western domesticity and a tawdry gilt equality to saloons and drawing-rooms, public and private. But he was observant of a corresponding change in Harcourt, when a moment later he entered the room. That individuality which had kept the former shopkeeper of Sidon distinct from, although perhaps not superior to, his customers—was strongly marked. He was perhaps now more nervously alert than then; he was certainly more impatient than before,—but that was pardonable in a man of large affairs and action. Grant could not deny that he seemed improved,—rather perhaps that the setting of fine clothes, cleanliness, and the absence of petty worries, made his characteristics respectable. That which is ill breeding in homespun, is apt to become mere eccentricity in purple and fine linen; Grant felt that Harcourt jarred on him less than he did before, and was grateful without superciliousness. Harcourt, relieved to find that Grant was neither critical nor aggressively reminiscent, and above all not inclined to claim the credit of creating him and Tasajara, became more confident, more at his ease, and, I fear, in proportion more unpleasant. It is the repose and not the struggle of the parvenu that confounds us.
“And YOU, Grant,—you have made yourself famous, and, I hear, have got pretty much your own prices for your opinions ever since it was known that you—you—er—were connected with the growth of Tasajara.”
Grant smiled; he was not quite prepared for this; but it was amusing and would pass the time. He murmured a sentence of half ironical deprecation, and Mr. Harcourt continued:—
“I haven't got my San Francisco house here to receive you in, but I hope some day, sir, to see you there. We are only here for the day and night, but if you care to attend the opening ceremonies at the new hall, we can manage to give you dinner afterwards. You can escort my daughter Clementina,—she's here with me.”
The smile of apologetic declination which had begun to form on Grant's lips was suddenly arrested. “Then your daughter is here?” he asked, with unaffected interest.
“Yes,—she is in fact a patroness of the library and sewing-circle, and takes the greatest interest in it. The Reverend Doctor Pilsbury relies upon her for everything. She runs the society, even to the training of the young ladies, sir. You shall see their exercises.”
This was certainly a new phase of Clementina's character. Yet why should she not assume the role of Lady Bountiful with the other functions of her new condition. “I should have thought Miss Harcourt would have found this rather difficult with her other social duties,” he said, “and would have left it to her married sister.” He thought it better not to appear as if avoiding reference to Euphemia, although quietly ignoring her late experiences. Mr. Harcourt was less easy in his response.
“Now that Euphemia is again with her own family,” he said ponderously, with an affectation of social discrimination that was in weak contrast to his usual direct business astuteness, “I suppose she may take her part in these things, but just now she requires rest. You may have heard some rumor that she is going abroad for a time? The fact is she hasn't the least intention of doing so, nor do we consider there is the slightest reason for her going.” He paused as if to give great emphasis to a statement that seemed otherwise unimportant. “But here's Clementina coming, and I must get you to excuse ME. I've to meet the trustees of the church in ten minutes, but I hope she'll persuade you to stay, and I'll see you later at the hall.”