“Thankee, seh, thankee, seh, I’ll brings it right out, seh.”
Croyden went slowly down the street, while the crowd stared after him, and the shops emptied their loafers to join them in the staring. He was 38 a strange man—and a well-dressed man—and they all were curious.
Presently, the shops were replaced by dwellings of the humbler sort, then they, in turn, by more pretentious residences—with here and there a new one of the Queen Anne type. Croyden did not need the information, later vouchsafed, that they belong to new people. It was as unmistakable as the houses themselves.
About a mile from the station, he passed a place built of English brick, covered on the sides by vines, and shaded by huge trees. It stood well back from the street and had about it an air of aristocracy and exclusiveness.
“I wonder if this is the Bordens’?” said Croyden looking about him for some one to ask—“Ah!”
Down the path from the house was coming a young woman. He slowed down, so as to allow her to reach the entrance gates ahead of him. She was pretty, he saw, as she neared—very pretty!—positively beautiful! dark hair and——
He took off his hat.
“I beg your pardon!” he said. “Is this Mr. Borden’s?”
“Yes—this is Major Borden’s,” she answered, with a deliciously soft intonation, which instantly stirred Croyden’s Southern blood.
“Then Clarendon is the next place, is it not?”