“Sometimes it is made so plain,” replied George, “that it requires no great experience to know it.”
The merchant laughed good-humoredly.
“We have a philosopher of gloom in you, I see.” Then turning to his niece: “What do you say to this, my dear?”
“If you please, sir—nothing,” said she.
She walked to one of the windows, her silken skirts swishing; and the old merchant, puzzled, turned to George and shook his head.
“She’s an odd one at times,” he said, lowly. “Very much like her mother was—and there was no keeping the run of her for five minutes together.”
George made no reply to this; he stood with his back to the fireless hearth and watched the tall young figure at the window with its proudly-posed head. After a moment, the merchant, as though something had just occurred to him, took a letter from his pocket.
“I meant to speak of this when I first came down,” said he. “But those gentlemen of Mr. Washington’s were in ear-shot.”
He unfolded the sheet while George looked at him surprisedly. The expression “gentlemen of Mr. Washington’s” seemed odd.
“It will amuse you,” continued the stout old Tory in a low tone, “but when I was about to ask you here to-night a thought struck me, and I hesitated. Not that the outcome would have made any real difference, you see, for I should have asked you anyhow. But I hastened to refer to this,” holding out the letter, “as soon as I got here. And the result has pleased me. I am delighted that you are one of us.”