More than all, the free, familiar way in which he spoke of the young planter's sister—which the latter did not appear to relish—this and the glances given to myself, had prepared me for a very surly conversation, had one been commenced between us. Indeed, had the interview lasted much longer, with the interchange of a few more such looks, the bad blood between us would have found expression in speech. As it was, we parted in mutual dislike, on both sides as clearly understood as though it had been spoken.
"Who is your swearing friend?" I asked, knowing that the question so put was not likely to give offense.
"Not much friend of mine."
"Nor of your father's, I should say?"
"Father can't bear the sight of him."
"An old acquaintance, I suppose? He appears to be familiar with your affairs."
I was thinking more of the mode in which he had spoken of Miss Woodley than of any thing else. The remark made about not having seen her, had jarred upon my ear. Why should he have said this at all? And why had the brother appeared to dislike it?
"Oh, yes. He is an old acquaintance," replied the young planter; "and ought to know a good deal of our affairs—at least until lately. I may say we were brought up together. His plantation adjoined ours—what once was his. That's what he meant by saying he was out to have a look at the old place."
"It is no longer his, you say?"
"No, the land now belongs to us."