“What’s his name?”
“St. Clare—Robert St. Clare. His father was away from home. He’s a politician, I think.”
“You don’t say! St. Clare. Well of all the jokes! His father is my Democratic chum in the House—an old fire-eating Bourbon, but a capital fellow.”
“Did you ever see him?”
“No, but I’ve had good times with his father. He used to own a hundred slaves. He’s a royal fellow, and pretty well fixed in life for a Southern politician. I don’t think though I ever saw his boy. Anything really serious?”
“He hasn’t said a word—but he’s coming to see me next week.”
“Well things are moving, I must say!”
“Yes, I pretended I must consult you, before telling him he could come. I didn’t want to seem too anxious. I’m half afraid to let him wander about Boston much, there are too many girls here.”
Her father laughed proudly and looked at her. “I hope you will find him all your heart most desires, and my congratulations on your first love!”
“It will be my last, too,” she answered seriously.