John had wiggled and sighed loudly when bricks had been talked of. In an effort to gloss over the crudities he had contributed a "smart line of talk," far more impossible than any amount of money mention.
K. Stuyvesant had responded politely to everything and had avoided looking at Cecilia with a studied effort. Cecilia had been silent. She felt it better that she should not appear in this act.
"He come to me, being as I was a man with money, and I sez——" came to her again in Jeremiah's cracked voice.
"I beg pardon?" K. Stuyvesant had said, having lost it through John's interruption.
"Granted," said Jeremiah. "I sez, he come to me an'——"
K. Stuyvesant had been so dear! Cecilia stood leaning on the wall with the Greek relief, as she thought her thoughts.... She looked on the Sound, which was black in the night, except for a path of white moonlight. A path that quivered silver. She looked and saw K. Stuyvesant listening to Jeremiah's talk. He had been so dear! She wondered whether they'd never finish their smoke and talk, and whether he'd ever come to her.
Her eyes filled with tears.
"Mamma!" she whispered to the soft dark. A fitful little breeze sprang up, seeming to answer.
He came across the soft grass slowly. His heart knelt to the little Irish girl who sat upon the white marble wall.
"Hello, Mr. K. Stuyvesant!" she called gaily.