“Oh, the Irish vote! That is always the last word in the argument,” answered Mrs. Sam.
“I do not see exactly what the Irish have to do with it,” remarked Miss Brandon, innocently. She did not understand politics.
Vancouver glanced at the clock and took his hat.
“It is very simple,” he said, rising to go. “It is the bull in the china shop–the Irish bull amongst the American china–dangerous, you know. Good evening, Mrs. Wyndham; good evening, Miss Brandon.” And he took his leave. Miss Brandon watched his slim figure disappear through the heavy curtains of the door.
“He has not changed much since I knew him,” she said, turning again to the fire. “I used to think he was clever.”
“And have you changed your mind?” asked Mrs. Wyndham, laughing.
“Not quite, but I begin to doubt. He has very good manners, and looks altogether like a gentleman.”
“Of course,” said Mrs. “Wyndham.” His mother was a Shaw, although his father came from South Carolina. But he is really very bright; Sam always says he is one of the ablest men in Boston.”
“In what way?” inquired Sybil.
“Oh, he is a lawyer, don’t you know?–great railroad man.”