Miss Dana started, and exclaimed, involuntarily, “Mr. Dysart—not Mr. Octavius Dysart?”
“Yes, that was the name. Why, do you know him? I'll be honest, I know you do.”
“My mother was born in Yonkers, and Mr. Dysart was the clergyman who officiated at my father's wedding. He used to call on us whenever he came to Boston. But how did he know that you knew me?”
“He said he was going to Fernborough to see your father, and I availed myself of the opportunity to mention my acquaintance with you. He wished you could come and see him.”
“Where is he? Of course I will go.”
“He is staying with Mr. Larned, my college mate's father, who lives in Jamaica Plain, but he will not be there until this evening. He's attending a religious conference this afternoon and goes to Fernborough early to-morrow.”
“Then I can't see him.”
“Why not? I'm going out this evening—small party invited—entirely informal—half my auto is at your service.”
“Will you get me back to the hotel before the doors are closed? I shall pack up to-morrow.”
“I promise,” said Quincy. “I will come for you at seven sharp.”