Agricola indulged to excess the grim hypocrisy of brandishing the catchwords of new-fangled reforms; they served to spice a breath that was strong with the praise of the "superior liberties of Europe,"--those old, cast-iron tyrannies to get rid of which America was settled.
Frowenfeld smiled amusedly and apologetically at the same moment.
"I am glad to meet you. I--"
He was going on to give Honoré Grandissime's message, but was interrupted.
"My young friend," rumbled the old man in his deepest key, smiling emotionally and holding and solemning continuing to shake Joseph's hand, "I am sure you are. You ought to thank God that you have my acquaintance."
Frowenfeld colored to the temples.
"I must acknowledge--" he began.
"Ah!" growled the lion, "your beautiful modesty leads you to misconstrue me, sir. You pay my judgment no compliment. I know your worth, sir; I merely meant, sir, that in me--poor, humble me--you have secured a sympathizer in your tastes and plans. Agricola Fusilier, sir, is not a cock on a dunghill, to find a jewel and then scratch it aside."
The smile of diffidence, but not the flush, passed from the young man's face, and he sat down forcibly.
"You jest," he said.