“And he’s discharged all that Isthmian crowd,” she went on.
“Better,” I said.
“And made my brother president of the new company,” she continued, and then raised her eyebrows, and waited, smiling.
“Oh, well,” I said, “since he’s your brother—‘best.’”
“That’s right,” she cried. “That’s very nice of you. Here comes mother. I want you to meet her.”
Mother came toward us, out of a French dress-maker’s. It was one of the places I had decided against, when I had passed it a few minutes before. It seemed one of the few business houses where a French linguist would be superfluous.
I was presented as “Captain Macklin—who, you know, mother—who fought the duel with Arthur—that is, who didn’t shoot at him.”
Mrs. Fiske looked somewhat startled. Even to a trained social leader it must be trying to have a man presented to you on a sidewalk as the one who did not shoot your son.
Mrs. Fiske had a toy dog under one arm, and was holding up her train, but she slipped the dog to the groom, and gave me her hand.
“How do you do, Mr.—Captain Macklin,” she said. “My son has told me a great deal about you. Have you asked Captain Macklin to come to see us, Helen?” she said, and stepped into the brougham.