"What a busy life, maman," her son said; "not like that dark London, and no fog, and the sun—like the sun of home."
"We have no home," she replied, and for a moment he was silent. Then, still intent upon interesting her, he said:
"How strange! There is a sign of a likely black wench and two children for sale. 'Inquire within and see them. Sold for want of use.' And lotteries, maman. There is one for a canal between the Delaware and the Schuylkill rivers; and one to improve the Federal City. I wonder where that is." She paid little attention, and walked on, a tall, dark, somber woman, looking straight before her, with her thoughts far away.
The many taverns carried names which were echoes from the motherland, which men, long after the war, were still apt, as Washington wrote, to call "home." The Sign of the Cock, the Dusty Miller, the Pewter Plate, and—"Ah, maman," he cried, laughing, "The Inn of the Struggler. That should suit us."
The sullen clerk, stirred at last by the young fellow's gay interest, his eager questions, and his evident wish to distract and amuse a tired woman who stumbled over the loose bricks of the sidewalk, declared that was no place for them. Her tall figure in mourning won an occasional glance, but no more. It was a day of strange faces and varied costumes. "And, maman," said her son, "the streets are called for trees and the lanes for berries." Disappointed at two inns of the better class, there being no vacant rooms, they crossed High Street; the son amused at the market stands for fruit, fish, and "garden truck, too," the clerk said, with blacks crying, "Calamus! sweet calamus!" and "Pepper pot, smoking hot!" or "Hominy! samp! grits! hominy!" Then, of a sudden, as they paused on the farther corner, madam cried out, "Mon Dieu!" and her son a half-suppressed "Sacré!" A heavy landau coming down Second Street bumped heavily into a deep rut and there was a liberal splash of muddy water across madam's dark gown and the young man's clothes. In an instant the owner of the landau had alighted, hat in hand, a middle-aged man in velvet coat and knee-breeches.
"Madam, I beg a thousand pardons."
"My mother does not speak English, sir. These things happen. It is they who made the street who should apologize. It is of small moment."
"I thank you for so complete an excuse, sir. You surely cannot be French. Permit me,"—and he turned to the woman, "mille pardons," and went on in fairly fluent French to say how much he regretted, and would not madam accept his landau and drive home? She thanked him, but declined the offer in a voice which had a charm for all who heard it. He bowed low, not urging his offer, and said, "I am Mr. William Bingham. I trust to have the pleasure of meeting madam again and, too, this young gentleman, whose neat excuse for me would betray him if his perfect French did not. Can I further serve you?"
"No, sir," said De Courval, "except to tell me what inn near by might suit us. We are but just now landed. My guide seems in doubt. I should like one close at hand. My mother is, I fear, very tired."