Guly bowed distantly. Those young eyes had seen deeper into the heart before him, in the few minutes that he had been an observer of its impulses, than Arthur had seen, or at least decided upon, in forty-eight hours of mingled acquaintanceship and reflection. True, the boy knew but little of the world; but there are some, and they are not the worldly and suspicious, but the pure-minded and gentle, that shrink intuitively from a polluting presence, scarce knowing from what they shrink. There was much in Mr. Clinton which Guly saw to dread, as a companion for his brother; and, at their first recognition, he was assured it was one of Arthur's yesterday acquaintances, and felt a pang of disappointment at not seeing him differently received by his brother.
"Where are you strolling?" asked Mr. Clinton, breaking a pause, which had followed Guly's cool reception of himself.
"Merely out for a walk," returned Arthur; "it's only before and after business hours, you know, that we have time for recreation."
"True, true," replied the other, stroking his chin, and speaking in a commiserating tone. "Ah, that must be
terribly dull business, for young chaps like you. I always pity a clerk."
"Indeed, sir," said Guly, "we neither deserve nor need pity; we have everything to make us contented and happy in our new situation, and appreciate it, I assure you."
Mr. Clinton glanced for an instant keenly at the speaker, then answered, with a light laugh:—
"Yes, yes, just so; I didn't apply my remark beyond myself; in fact, it's something I never could stand."
"We have extended our walk as far as we intended for to-night, have we not, brother? Mr. Clinton, we bid you good evening," said Guly, as they, for the third time, gained the gate by which they had entered the square.
Mr. Clinton looked up in astonishment.