He did not know that his palace had delighted even the jaded eye of the far-traveled First Citizen. He only knew that his fellow-townsmen sneered at it with dislike.
Shelby was never told by the discreet committeemen in the carriage that the President had exclaimed on seeing his home:
"Why, this is magnificent! This is an estate! I never dreamed that—er—Wakefield was a city of such importance and such wealth. And whose home is this?"
Somebody groaned, "Shelby's."
"Ah yes; Shelby's, of course. So many things here are Shelby's. You must be very proud of Mr. Shelby. Is he there, perhaps?"
"That's him, standing on the upper porch there, waving his hat," Pettibone mumbled.
The President waved his hat at Shelby.
"And the handsome lady is his wife, perhaps?"
"Yes, that's Mrs. Shelby," mumbled Spate. "She was Miss Carew. Used to teach school here."
Phœbe Shelby was clinging to her husband's side. There were tears in her eyes and her hands squeezed mute messages upon his arm, for she knew that his many-wounded heart was now more bitterly hurt than in all his knowledge of Wakefield. He was a prisoner in disgrace gazing through the bars at a festival.