“But I think you are wrong, Uncle George, about his birth. I've been looking him up and his grandfather was a general in the Revolution.”
“Well, I'm glad of it—and I hope he was a very good general, and very much of a gentleman—but there is no question of his descendant being a wonder. But that is neither here nor there—you'll be right opposite and can study him in your own way.”
Mr. Kennedy arrived first. Although his family name is the same as that which dignifies the scene of these chronicles, none of his ancestors, so far as I know, were responsible for its title. Nor did his own domicile front on its confines. In fact, at this period of his varied and distinguished life, he was seldom seen in Kennedy Square, his duties at Washington occupying all his time, and it was by the merest chance that he could be present.
“Ah, St. George!” he exclaimed, as he handed his hat to Todd and grasped his host's hand. “So very good of you to let me come. How cool and delicious it is in here—and the superb roses—Ah yes!—the old Castellux cup. I remember it perfectly; your father once gave me a sip from its rim when I was a young fellow. And now tell me—how is our genius? What a master-stroke is his last—the whole country is ringing with it. How did you get hold of him?”
“Very easily. He wrote me he was passing through on his way to Richmond, and you naturally popped into my head as the proper man to sit next him,” replied St. George in his hearty manner.
“And you were on top of him, I suppose, before he got out of bed. Safer, sometimes,” and he smiled significantly.
“Yes, found him at Guy's. Sit here, Kennedy, where the air is cooler.”
“And quite himself?” continued the author, settling himself in a chair that St. George had just drawn out for him.
“Perhaps a little thinner, and a little worn. It was only when I told him you were coming, that I got a smile out of him. He never forgets you and he never should.”
Again Todd answered the knocker and Major Clayton, Richard Horn, and Mr. Latrobe joined the group. The major, who was rather stout, apologized for his light seersucker coat, due, as he explained, to the heat, although his other garments were above criticism. Richard, however, looked as if he had just stepped out of an old portrait in his dull-blue coat and white silk scarf, St. George's eyes lighting up as he took in the combination—nothing pleased St. George so much as a well-dressed man, and Richard never disappointed him, while Latrobe, both in his dress and dignified bearing, easily held first place as the most distinguished looking man in the room.