And, indeed, Elizabeth was not far from the truth in the appellation so contemptuously hurled.
“You prefer that, do you?” said Peyton, unruffled; whereupon he took from within his waistcoat a long, thick pocketbook, and from that a number of bills; which must have been for high amounts, for he rapidly counted out only a score or two of them, repocketing the rest, and at that time, thereabouts, “a rat in shape of a horse,” as Washington himself had complained a month before, was “not to be bought for less than £200.”[4] Peyton handed her the bills he had counted out. “There’s a fair price, then,” said he; “allowing for depreciation. The current rate is five to one,—I allow six.”
Elizabeth looked disdainfully at the proffered bills, and made no move to take them.
“Pah!” she cried. “I wouldn’t touch your wretched Continental trash. I wouldn’t let one of my black women put her hair up in it. Money, 90 do you call it? I wouldn’t give a shilling of the King for a houseful of it.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Peyton, cheerfully. “Since July in ’76 there has been no king in America. I leave the bills, madam.” He laid them on the newel post, beside the candlestick. “’Tis all I can do, and more than many a man would do, seeing that Colonel Philipse, the owner of this place, is no friend to the American cause, and may fairly be levied on as an enemy—”
“Colonel Philipse is my father!”
“Then I’m glad I’ve been punctilious in the matter,” said Peyton, but without any increase of deference. “Egad, I think I’ve been as scrupulous as the commander-in-chief himself!”
“The commander-in-chief!” echoed Elizabeth. “Sir Henry Clinton pays in gold.”
“I meant our commander-in-chief,” with a suavity most irritating.
“Mr. Washington!” said Elizabeth, scornfully, with a slight emphasis on the “Mr.”