“It is Mr. Minister Merry,” said he, “and Mme. Merry.” He bowed deeply. “Señor and Señora Yrujo, I bring you the respects of Mr. Jefferson. He will be with us presently.”
“I had believed, sir—I understood,” began Merry explosively, “that we were to meet here the President of the United States. Where, then, is his suite?”
“We have no suite, sir. I represent the President as his aide.”
“My word!” murmured the mystified dignitary, turning to his lady, who stood, the picture of mute anger, at his side, the very aigrets on her ginger-colored hair trembling in her anger.
“‘Mistah Thomas Jeffahson!’ was his sole announcement”
They turned once more to the Spanish minister, who, with his American wife, stood at hand. There ensued such shrugs and liftings of eyebrows as left full evidence of a discontent that none of the four attempted to suppress.
Meriwether Lewis saw and noted, but seemed not to note. Mr. Merry suddenly remembered him now as the young man he had encountered that morning, and turned with an attempt at greater civility.
“You will understand, sir, that I came supposing I was to appear in my official capacity. We were invited upon that basis. There was to have been a dinner, was there not—or am I mistaken of the hour? Is it not four in the afternoon?”