He kept his word. For five days he was just as attentive to the stranger as one lad could be to another. They were scarcely separated one hour, and there was not a hint of discord between them. The Judge saw very little of them except at meal times. He was struck by the exquisite and unfailing courtesy of the newcomer. Nothing ruffled him, nothing caused him to forget his good manners. They really seemed to be a part of him. Sometimes the Judge felt a vague uneasiness that all this politeness hid something that ought to have been revealed—that the boy was too agreeable to be genuine. He was pretty sure that Titus agreed with him in this, although he had never heard him discuss his new friend with anyone.
“Titus,” he said one day when Dallas happened to be away with Charlie Brown, “Dallas’s visit is drawing to a close. I hope that he considers it a successful one.”
Titus gave him a peculiar look. “I think he does, sir.”
“The servants have been respectful to him, I hope.”
“They’ve got to be,” said Titus, grimly; “he has a way with him—”
“What kind of a way?” inquired the Judge.
“Hard inside and soft out,” replied the boy, “and his blood is blue. Theirs is only red.”
“Is he proud of his culture?”
“He’s got a pedigree,” said Titus, gloomily, “a pedigree as long as your arm, and he carries it in that old leather bag. It takes the de Warrens away back to William the Conqueror.”
“Why, so have you a pedigree for that matter,” and the Judge smiled.