"It is a New England village, and you know what those are. Broad grassy streets, and shadowy old elms, and comfortable houses; and the sea not far off. Quiet, and good air, and people with their intelligence alive. There is even a library."
"And among these comfortable inhabitants, who would want to be troubled with me?"
"I think I know. I think I know just the house, where your coming would be a boon. They are not very well-to-do. I have not asked, but I am inclined to believe they would be glad to have you."
"Who are they?"
"A household of women. The father and mother are dead; the grandmother is there yet, and there are three daughters. They are relations of an old friend of mine, indeed a connection of mine, in the city. So I know something about them."
"Not the people themselves?"
"Yes, I know the people,—so far as one specimen goes. I fancy they are people you could get along with."
Mrs. Barclay looked a little scrutinizingly at the young man. His face revealed nothing, more than a friendly solicitude. But he caught the look, and broke out suddenly with a change of subject.
"How do you women get along without cigars? What is your substitute?"
"What does the cigar, to you, represent?"