As they came out, after having vaguely picked over the others, the young lover was all elation. Upon the narrow side-path a servant wheeling a trunk to the Liverpool dock upon a barrow brushed him rudely, but he did not notice. Only a newsboy crying out the Gazette, the blast of the bugle of the incoming stage coach from Boston, the dust of the side-path, where the helper of the Apollo was sweeping the lobby preparatory to the performance of the night, attracted and pleased him. He helped his fiancée gaily into the carriage and half bounded with joy to the seat beside her, where he smiled and smiled.
“I may not wear it, though,” said his betrothed, now that the remarkable episode was over, and she held up a dainty finger; “because, as you know, you have not spoken to my father as yet.”
“Keep it, nevertheless,” he answered. “I will speak to him fast enough.”
“I give you good-day, Master Walton,” said the distinguished Jefferson as they passed from William into Wall Street, near where that statesman made temporary stopping-place when in the city.
“Master Jefferson, William,” cried his fiancée softly, using for the first time his given name. “Master Jefferson has bid you good-day.”
“Good evening!” cried Walton, all deference in a moment because of the error which his excitement had occasioned, “good evening to you, sir!” and he bowed, and bowed very gracefully again.
“How can I be so mindful, though, of all these formalities,” he said explanatorily as he turned once more to his fair intended, “when I have you? It is not to be expected.”
“But necessary, just the same,” she said. “And if you are to begin thus quickly neglecting your duties, what am I to think?”
For answer he took her hand. Elatedly then they made their way to the old homestead again, and there being compelled to leave her while she dressed for the theater, he made his way toward the broad and tree-shaded Bowery, where was the only true and idyllic walk for a lover. The older houses nearest the city, redolent in their Dutch architecture of an older and even quainter period; the wide paths and broad doorways, rich in both vines and flowers; the rapidly decreasing evidences of population as one’s steps led northward—all combined to soothe and set dreaming the poetic mind. Here young Walton, as so many before him, strolled and hummed, thinking of all that life and the young city held for him. Now, indeed, was his fortune truly made. Love was his, the lovely Beppie, no less. Here then he decided to build that mansion of his own—far out, indeed, above Broome Street, but in this self-same thoroughfare where all was so suggestive of flowers and romance. He had no inkling, as he pondered, of what a century might bring forth. The crush and stress and wretchedness fast treading upon this path of loveliness he could not see.