“Out to my house, of course,” said Drouet, smiling.
Hurstwood looked up quizzically, the least suggestion of a smile hovering about his lips. He studied the face of Drouet in his wise way, and then with the demeanour of a gentleman, said: “Certainly; glad to.”
“We’ll have a nice game of euchre.”
“May I bring a nice little bottle of Sec?” asked Hurstwood. “Certainly,” said Drouet. “I’ll introduce you.”
Chapter IX. CONVENTION’S OWN TINDER-BOX: THE EYE THAT IS GREEN
Hurstwood’s residence on the North Side, near Lincoln Park, was a brick building of a very popular type then, a three-story affair with the first floor sunk a very little below the level of the street. It had a large bay window bulging out from the second floor, and was graced in front by a small grassy plot, twenty-five feet wide and ten feet deep. There was also a small rear yard, walled in by the fences of the neighbours and holding a stable where he kept his horse and trap.
The ten rooms of the house were occupied by himself, his wife Julia, and his son and daughter, George, Jr., and Jessica. There were besides these a maid-servant, represented from time to time by girls of various extraction, for Mrs. Hurstwood was not always easy to please.
“George, I let Mary go yesterday,” was not an unfrequent salutation at the dinner table.
“All right,” was his only reply. He had long since wearied of discussing the rancorous subject.
A lovely home atmosphere is one of the flowers of the world, than which there is nothing more tender, nothing more delicate, nothing more calculated to make strong and just the natures cradled and nourished within it. Those who have never experienced such a beneficent influence will not understand wherefore the tear springs glistening to the eyelids at some strange breath in lovely music. The mystic chords which bind and thrill the heart of the nation, they will never know.