CHAPTER XVII.
MR. SOMERS came promptly at eleven, the next morning, and Margaret received him in the drawing-room alone. She had given orders that she should be denied to any early visitors who might be coming in, and was resolved that she would be just and patient with the young man, though she was also resolved that the nature of their relationship should be definitely settled and understood, during this interview.
They had not been seated long when Margaret heard Louis Gaston’s voice speaking to a servant in the hall. She looked up in surprise, as she had supposed him to be at his office an hour ago. He came in, with his overcoat on, and his hat in his hand, and when Margaret presented him to Mr. Somers he cordially offered him his disengaged hand. Margaret was struck with the contrast between the two general exteriors, as she had been the night before, but she was not a whit ashamed of her old friend. She told herself that no man with eyes in his head could fail to see that Somers was a gentleman, and, for the rest, it did not matter.
“I learned from my sister-in-law,” said Louis, addressing Mr. Somers, “that Miss Trevennon was receiving a visit from a friend from home; and Mrs. Gaston has authorized me to come and engage you for dinner to-day, if you have no other appointment. I hope you will be able to come.”
Margaret, glancing at Mr. Somers, was distressed to see that he looked decidedly ungracious. She saw, by his manner, that he suspected that this smooth-spoken Yankee was going to patronize him, though nothing could have been franker and less patronizing than Gaston’s whole bearing.
“Thank you,” Mr. Somers answered, rather curtly, “I have another engagement.”
Louis expressed the hope that he would give them another day while he was in Washington, and asked for his address, saying that he would call upon him.
Mr. Somers, having a hazy impression that to hand his card was the proper thing, and not wishing to be outdone in savoir-faire, fumbled in his pocket and produced a tumbled envelope, out of which he drew a visiting-card of imposing proportions. Margaret glanced at it quickly, and saw, to her horror, that it was printed! In the midst of a wide expanse of tinted pasteboard was inscribed C. R. Somers, in aggressive German type. She smiled to herself, as she made a swift mental comparison between this card and another—a pure-white little affair, with Mr. Louis Gaston engraved on it in quiet script. She knew well what Gaston was thinking of Charley, as he waited quietly while the latter wrote his address and handed him the cumbrous card with rather a bad grace, and she knew as well what Charley, as he scribbled off the street, and number of his friend’s house, was thinking of Mr. Gaston. It was all very absurd, and she could not help feeling and perhaps looking amused.
Louis lingered to make a few more friendly overtures, but these were so loftily received by Mr. Somers that he soon found it best to take leave, and, with a pleasant “Au revoir” to both, he turned and left the room.
“A French-talking, phrase-turning dandy!” said Charley, as soon as his back was turned. “I wonder that you can tolerate such a man, Margaret.”