"Stillings?" she repeated. "Why, he's the man that's waiting."
"Sam, is it? Used to be one of our servants—you remember? Wants to borrow more money, I presume." He went down-stairs, after first helping himself to a glass of whiskey, and then gallantly kissing his wife. Mrs. Cresswell was more unsatisfied than usual. She could not help feeling that Mr. Cresswell was treating her about as he treated his wine—as an indulgence; a loved one, a regular one, but somehow not as the reality and prose of life, unless—she started at the thought—his life was all indulgence. Having nothing else to do, she went out and paraded the streets, watching the people who were happy enough to be busy.
Cresswell and Stillings had a long conference, and when Stillings hastened away he could not forbear cutting a discreet pigeon-wing as he rounded the corner. He had been promised the backing of the whole Southern delegation in his schemes.
That night Teerswell called on him in his modest lodgings, where over hot whiskey and water they talked.
"The damned Southern upstart," growled Teerswell, forgetting Stillings' birth-place. "Do you mean to say he's actually slated for the place?"
"He's sure of it, unless something turns up."
"Well, who'd have dreamed it?" Teerswell mixed another stiff dram.
"And that isn't all," came Sam Stillings' unctuous voice.
Teerswell glanced at him. "What else?" he asked, pausing with the steaming drink poised aloft.
"If I'm not mistaken, Alwyn intends to marry Miss Wynn."