The next morning Stephen was roused by hearing some one knock at his door. Thinking that it was Andrew, who in his person seemed to combine the functions of coachman and butler, he called to him to enter; but in place of Andrew, Gibbs opened the door. Gibbs, sober, and with a flower in his buttonhole, a sprig of scarlet geranium, and his tall hat held gracefully and jauntily over his forearm.
“Good-morning, Steve!” he cried. “How did you rest, you weren't expecting me, eh?” he chuckled. “I want to see your Uncle Jake. Think he's aged any?”
“No, I can't say that I do, but you know I saw him quite recently.”
“So you did, when he was East during the winter. You are going to see your Aunt Virginia the first thing; ain't you, Steve?”
Stephen looked at him sharply. He could not understand just why Gibbs should be interested in what he did.
“I suppose I'll go there some time to-day,” he said.
“Go there the first thing,” urged Gibbs. “He'll expect you to. If you don't, he'll score it up against you.” He dropped his voice to a confidential whisper.
“He—who?” asked Stephen.
“Your Uncle Jake.”
“He never mentions her.”