Fairfax and His Pride: A Novel

by Marie Van Vorst

Here George Washington brought Fairfax the Sunday morning Tribune, and folded it before his gentleman and presented it almost on his knees.

"Let me git ye a teenty weenty bit mo' salid, Kunnell?"

Fairfax unfolded the Tribune leisurely. "Bring some ice-cream, George, and some good cigars, and a little old brandy. Yes, Rainsford, it isn't poison."

Fairfax read attentively, and his companion watched him patiently, his own face lightened by the companionship

of the younger man. Fairfax glanced at the headlines of the Tribune, said "By George!" under his breath, and bent over the paper. His face underwent a transformation; he grew pale, read fixedly, then laughed, said "By George!" again, folded the paper up and put it in his pocket.

The ice-cream was brought and described as "Panillapolitan cream, sah," and Fairfax lit a cigar and puffed it fast and then said suddenly—

"Do you know what hate is, Rainsford? I reckon you don't. Your face doesn't bear any traces of it."

"Yes, Fairfax," said the other, "I know what it is—it's a disease which means battle, murder, and sudden death."

The young man took the paper out of his pocket and unfolded it, and Rainsford was surprised to see his hands tremble, the beautiful clever hands with the stained finger ends and the clean, beautiful palm. Falutini did more work than Fairfax now. He slaved for his master.

"Read that, Rainsford." He tapped a headline with his forefinger. "It sounds like an event."