When he shook hands with Arbuthnot he regarded him with admiration and awe.
"I'm much obliged to you," he said, his vague sense of indebtedness taking form. "If you ever come to Whippleville I'm sure my father would like to—to see you."
And he retired with his young relatives, blushing still, and occasionally treading on their feet, but his modesty, notwithstanding, bearing with him an inoffensive air of self-respect, which would be more than likely to last him through the day, and perhaps a little beyond it.
Mrs. Sylvestre's eyes met Arbuthnot's when he was gone.
"You were very kind to him," she said.
"I am obliged to confess," he replied, "that it was nothing but the low promptings of vanity which inspired me. It dawned upon me that he was impressed by my superior ease and elegance, and I seized the opportunity of exhibiting them."
"You knew just what to say to him," she added.
"That," he replied, "was entirely owing to the fact that I was a boy myself in the early part of the last century."
"He was an appreciative boy," she said, "and a grateful one; but I am sure I could not have made him comfortable if you had not been so kind."
And she once again bestowed upon him the subtle flattery of appearing to lose herself an instant in reflection upon him.