Brinkley was passing by without any salutation when, to his surprise, the other paused and lifted his hat.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “We have met once before; and I think I have to-apologize to you for unintentional incivility. The fact is—h’m—I mistook you for a—vagrant! I did not know you were a gentleman.”
So staggered was the artist with this greeting, that he could only borrow the vocabulary of Mr. Toots—
“Oh, it’s of no consequence,” he said, attempting to pass on.
But the other persevered.
“I assure you Mr.———, Mr.——— (I have not the pleasure of knowing your name), that I had no desire of offending you; and if I did so, I beg to apologize.”
Brinkley looked keenly at the speaker. His words and manner were greatly at variance with his looks,—even with the tone of his voice. Though he smiled and showed his teeth, a dark frown still disfigured his brow, and his mouth twitched nervously as if he were ill at ease.
Regarding him thus closely, Brinkley saw that he had been somewhat mistaken as to his age. He was considerably under forty years of age, but his hair was mixed with grey, and his features strongly marked as with the scars of old passions. A handsome man, certainly; an amiable one, certainly not! Yet he had a peculiar air of power and breeding, as of one accustomed to command.
Curiosity overcame dislike, and the young man determined to receive Mr. Monk’s overture as amiably as possible.
“I dare say it was a mistake,” he said. “Gentlemen don’t usually travel about in caravans.”