There was a moment’s awful pause, and then an involuntary burst of laughter from all except Mrs. Hill-Smith and Eleanor Baldwin. The functions of society with them meant deadly serious things, such as baking and washing days had been to their grandmothers, and they thought one about as little a subject of a joke as the other. Eleanor Baldwin drew herself up, and looked coldly at the British Ambassador, whose mouth had certainly grown wider. Mrs. Hill-Smith, who was really timid, felt frightened to death. Like Eleanor Baldwin, she had thought it the acme of elegance to have a dinner where every man present was a foreigner and a diplomat, and secretly regretted that, from motives of state, there always had to be Americans at a cabinet house. And here were the diplomats themselves laughing at her! It was exquisitely painful.
However, something more painful still was in store for Eleanor Baldwin. Mrs. Baldwin approached the group, and at sight of her Mr. Mulligan held out his hand, and a broad smile carried the corners of his mouth back to his ears.
“Why, Nora Hogan,” he cried, “it’s good for sore eyes to see you. I haven’t seen you before for twenty-five years. Jim Baldwin didn’t tell me, just now when I was talking with him, that you were here, and didn’t introduce me to his daughter, though I gave him some pretty broad hints. Sure, you know Mike Mulligan, who was clerk in your father’s store thirty years ago.”
“Certainly I do, Mike,” responded Mrs. Baldwin, calmly and sweetly and offering her hand. It was the first time Constance Maitland had ever seen Mrs. Baldwin unbend from her cold stateliness.
The kindness of her greeting seemed to inspire Senator Mulligan with the greatest enthusiasm.
“A better man than your father, Dan Hogan, never lived,” proclaimed Mr. Mulligan, addressing the circle, “and it’s the training I got with him that’s made my fortune. ‘Dale square, Mike,’ Dan Hogan would say—he had a beautiful brogue on him—‘and give the widders and the orphans the turn of the scale when you’re sellin’ ’em sugar and starch and such.’ And I’ve done it, Nora, in memory of good old Dan Hogan—and if any man says it’s impossible to keep a corner grocery and be honest, I say to ’em—‘It’s Danny Hogan, it is, that was the honest man and kept the corner grocery.’”
Mrs. Baldwin’s face grew softer and softer as Mr. Mulligan proceeded. She was so great a lover of charity and had such beautiful humility of spirit that the idea of her father’s example having moulded a man into a like charity gave her the deepest gratitude and pleasure; and if pride had owned a lodgment in her heart she would have been proud at that moment.
But not so Eleanor, or Mr. James Brentwood Baldwin, who now appeared hovering on the edge of the group. Eleanor, her face very pale, fixed her eyes on Senator Mulligan with a haughty stare, which he perfectly understood, and resented. A gleam shot into his eye which showed that he meant to pay her back for her insolence. Mr. Baldwin, in the most acute misery, practised the goose-step and tried to stem the tide of Senator Mulligan’s eloquence.
“Er—ah—eh—Mr. Mulligan, your compliments to the late Mr. Daniel Hogan are very much appreciated by me, as well as Mrs. Baldwin—especially as I recall with pleasure—what an—er—important—er—factor you were in the commerce of our native place. For myself, business has no real charm for me,” continued Mr. Baldwin, turning to the British Ambassador. “I have been reasonably successful, but my taste always lay in the way of books. I live among my books.”
Up to this time Mr. Mulligan had spoken with a very fair Irish accent, but now he chose to lapse into the most violent brogue that ever grew on the green sod of Ireland. This was accompanied with a wink to Constance, which gave her extreme enjoyment, and a nudge in the Ambassador’s ribs, which he did not in the least resent.