“Not a bad face,” he reflected, surveying it in the dusty speckled glass. “A trifle weak perhaps. I am a trifle weak; that is so. But, on the whole, the face of a gentleman and a decent fellow. And not devoid of intelligence.... Interesting, to see one's own face. Especially in this odd glass. Now I must be off. Hat, stick, overcoat, scarf—that is [everything.” ]
He walked down to the Eaux-Vives jetty, where a smart electric launch did indeed await him, and in it a young lady of handsome appearance, who regarded him with friendly interest and said, in pronounced American with an Italian accent, “I'm real pleased to meet you, Mr. Beechtree. Step right in. We'll start at once.”
Henry stepped right in, and sat down by this prepossessing girl.
“I must introduce myself,” she said. “My name is Gina Longfellow, and I'm Dr. Franchi's niece.”
“What excellent English you talk,” said Henry politely.
“American,” she corrected him. “My father was a native of Joliet, Ill. Are you acquainted with the Middle West?”
“I've travelled there,” said Henry, and repressed a shudder, for he had found the Middle West deplorable. He preferred South America.
“I am related to the poet,” said Miss Longfellow. “That great poet who wrote Hiawatha, Evangeline, and The Psalm of Life. Possibly you came across him out in the States?”
“No,” said Henry. “I fancy he was even then dead. You are a descendant of his?”