“My son, sir,” said the old lady, proudly,—“my son Tony, of whom I have talked to you.”
“I shall be charmed if Mr. Butler will allow me to take that place in his acquaintance which a sincere interest in him gives me some claim to,” said Maitland, approaching Tony, intending to shake his hand, but too cautious to risk a repulse, if it should be meditated.
Tony drew himself up haughtily, and said, “I am much honored, sir; but I don't see any reason for such an interest in me.”
“Oh, Tony,” broke in the widow; but Maitland interrupted, and said: “It's easy enough to explain. Your mother and myself have grown, in talking over a number of common friends, to fancy that we knew each other long ago. It was, I assure you, a very fascinating delusion for me. I learned to recall some of the most cherished of my early friends, and remember traits in them which had been the delight of my childhood. Pray forgive me, then, if in such a company your figure got mixed up, and I thought or fancied that I knew you.”
There was a rapid eagerness in the manner he said these words that seemed to vouch for their sincerity; but their only immediate effect was to make Tony very ill at ease and awkward.
“Mr. Maitland has not told you, as he might have told you, Tony, that he came here with the offer of a substantial service. He had heard that you were in search of some pursuit or occupation.”
“Pray, madam, I entreat of you to say nothing of this now; wait, at least, until Mr. Butler and I shall know more of each other.”
“A strange sort of a piece you have there,” said Tony, in his confusion; for his cheek was scarlet with shame,—“something between an old duelling-pistol and a carbine.”