"O yes, considerable!" Ames rubbed his hands, and tried to appear at ease. "I am glad to see you here. You must go up to the House with me. How are all the folks at home? How's Harrowfork now-a-days?"
John Harmon answered these questions evasively.
At the same time, the Assistant's countenance betrayed an inward appreciation of unspeakable fun. The member's face grew redder still, and still more red. The truth is, he had that morning received a note from Blake warning him of Harmon's journey to the Capital, and had just left his seat in the House, hastening to the Department, to secure the fatal letter before it betrayed his treachery.
As we have seen, he was just too late.
The Assistant took pleasure in seating the two visitors side by side upon the same sofa, and allowed them to entertain each other. But the conversation was forced, unnatural, embarrassing. At length Ames, resolved upon knowing the worst, plunged desperately into the all-important subject.
"I suppose," said he, "you don't entirely get over the excitement at home about the post-office."
"No, we don't," replied John Harmon, significantly; "and that ain't the worst of it." He bent over the end of the sofa, and deliberately, with the grimmest sort of smile, drew from his hat the Honorable member's private note.
"And, somehow, it don't strike me," he added, glancing his eye over its contents, "that this letter of yours is going to lessen the excitement very materially. I suppose you know that hand-writing?"
He thrust the letter into the Honorable member's face. The Honorable member's face flushed more fiery than before. He stammered, he smiled, he rubbed his handkerchief in his hands, and upon his brow.
"My dear Harmon," said he, blandly, "I see you don't fully understand this business."