“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Peyton,” said Herbert, in a manly tone. “I feel ashamed of myself, but Oscar attacked me for claiming to be a gentleman, and I am afraid that my blood was up, and so we got into a fight.”
“How is this, Oscar?” said his mother. “Did you so wholly lose your politeness as to attack your guest for asserting his claims to be a gentleman? I am annoyed with you.”
“He says he has to work for a living,” said Oscar, sullenly.
“So may you, some time.”
“I am rich.”
“You may not always be. At any rate, being rich doesn't insure gentlemanly behavior, as your conduct to-day clearly shows. Herbert, I hope you will excuse my son's rudeness.”
“Here is my hand, Oscar,” said Herbert, cordially. “Let us be friends.”
Oscar hardly knew how to receive this overture, but he was finally thawed by Herbert's manner, and they were soon sauntering about on the lawn on the best of terms.
At half-past eleven, after an inviting lunch, the carriage was ordered, and Herbert and Mr. Carroll were driven to the depot, accompanied by Oscar, who went in his mother's place.
Herbert purchased tickets for both, being intrusted with Mr. Carrol's pocketbook for that purpose. He found a comfortable seat for the old gentleman, and sat down beside him.