“Is that nice?” asked Marcia.
“With the telescope sight, they're warranted to kill at five hundred yards.”
“Oh, for shame, Bartley! To talk of baby's ever killing!”
“Why, that's what they all come to. It's what you came to yourself.”
“Yes, I know. But it's quite another thing with baby.” She began to mumble it with her lips, and to talk baby-talk to it. In their common interest in this puppet they already called each other papa and mamma.
Squire Gaylord came alone, and when Marcia greeted him with “Why, father! Where's mother?” he asked, “Did you expect her? Well, I guess your mother's feeling rather too old for such long winter journeys. You know she don't go out a great deal I guess she expects your family down there in the summer.”
The old man was considerably abashed by the baby when it was put into his arms, and being required to guess its name he naturally failed.
“Flavia!” cried Marcia, joyfully. “Bartley named it after you.”
This embarrassed the Squire still more. “Is that so?” he asked, rather sheepishly. “Well, it's quite a compliment.”
Marcia repeated this to her husband as evidence that her father was all right now. Bartley and the Squire were in fact very civil to each other; and Bartley paid the old man many marked attentions. He took him to the top of the State House, and walked him all about the city, to show him its points of interest, and introduced him to such of his friends as they met, though the Squire's dresscoat, whether fully revealed by the removal of his surtout, or betraying itself below the skirt of the latter, was a trial to a fellow of Bartley's style. He went with his father-in-law to see Mr. Warren in Jefferson Scattering Batkins, and the Squire grimly appreciated the burlesque of the member from Cranberry Centre; but he was otherwise not a very amusable person, and off his own ground he was not conversable, while he refused to betray his impressions of many things that Bartley expected to astonish him. The Events editorial rooms had no apparent effect upon him, though they were as different from most editorial dens as tapestry carpets, black-walnut desks, and swivel chairs could make them. Mr. Witherby covered him with urbanities and praises of Bartley that ought to have delighted him as a father-in-law; but apparently the great man of the Events was but a strange variety of the type with which he was familiar in the despised country editors. He got on better with Mr. Atherton, who was of a man's profession. The Squire wore his hat throughout their interview, and everywhere except at table and in bed; and as soon as he rose front either, he put it on.