“Thank you, sir. Your wife is living?”
“I left her alive and well some two hours ago.”
“Has she any children of her own?”
“One,—a daughter, Antoinette. We call her Netty. A most extraordinary creature! An artist, sir! Paints sea-pieces better than Lane, Bradford, or Church himself. A girl of decided genius.”
“Well, Mr. Pompilard, if your house is not far from here, I wish to drive to it at once, and have your wife and daughter do us the honor to take seats in this carriage.”
“That we can do, Mr. Vance. Driver, 27 Lavinia Street! The day is pleasant. They will enjoy a drive. I must make you acquainted with my son-in-law, Major Purling. A noble fellow, sir! Had an arm shot off at Fair Oaks. Used up, too, by fever. Brave as Julius Cæsar! And, like Julius Cæsar, writes as well as he fights. He proposes getting up a history of the war. Here’s his Prospectus.”
Vance looked at it. “I mustn’t be outdone,” said he, “by a lady. Put me down also for thirty copies. Put down Mr. Winslow and Madame Volney each for as many more.”
“But that is astounding, sir!” cried Pompilard. “A hundred and twenty copies disposed of already! The Major will jump out of his bed at the news!”
As the carriage crossed the Bowery and bowled into Lavinia Street, Pompilard remarked: “There are some advantages, Mr. Vance, in being on the East River side. We get a purer sea air in summer, sir.”
At that moment an unfortunate stench of decayed vegetables was blown in upon them, by way of comment, and Pompilard added: “You see, sir, we are very particular about removing all noxious rubbish. Health, sir, is our first consideration. We have the dirt-carts busy all the time.”