“Not much. You know I had a surfeit of Downing Street once. By the way, papa, only think of my meeting George!”
“Ogden,—George Odgen?”
“Yes, it was a strange accident. He came to fetch away a young lad that happened to be stopping with us, and we met face to face—fortunately, alone—in the garden.”
“Very awkward that!” muttered he.
“So it was; and so he evidently felt it. By the way, how old he has grown! George can't be more than—let me see—forty-six. Yes, he was just forty-six on the 8th of August. You 'd guess him fully ten years older.”
“How did he behave? Did he recognize you and address you?”
“Yes; we talked a little,—not pleasantly, though. He evidently is not forgiving in his nature, and you know he had never much tact,—except official tact,—and so he was flurried and put out, and right glad to get away.”
“But there was no éclat,—no scandal?”