“I am scarcely presentable, Miss Davis. I am sure I address Miss Davis,” said he, pushing into the room, and bowing ceremoniously at each step. “There can be but only one so eminently beautiful!”
“There, take what you want, and be off!” cried Davis, rudely.
“Your father usurps all the privileges of long friendship, and emboldens me to claim some, too, my dear young lady. Let me kiss the fairest hand in Christendom.” And with a reverential homage all his own, Paul bent down and touched her hand with his lips.
“This is the Reverend Paul Classon, Lizzy,” said Davis,—“a great dignitary of the Church, and an old schoolfellow of mine.”
“I am always happy to know a friend of my father's,” said she, smiling gracefully. “You have only just arrived?”
“This moment!” said he, with a glance towards Grog.
“There, away with you, and finish your dressing,” broke in Davis, angrily; “I see it is nigh seven o'clock.”
“Past seven, rather; and the company assembled below stairs, and Mr. Beecher—for I presume it must be he—pacing the little terrace in all the impatience of a bride-groom. Miss Davis, your servant.” And with a bow of deep reverence Paul retired.
“There were so many things running in my mind to say to you, Lizzy,” said Davis, “when that Classon came in.” It was very hard for him not to add an epithet; but he did escape that peril.
“I own, papa, he did not impress me very favorably.”