“Now, Captain,” and the tiger’s claw protruded just a little as she spoke, “you must not ask direct questions. At present it is quite a secret; but as a friend I was only warning Mr. Stanton, and ‘forewarned is forearmed,’ you know.”
“Very well,” said Hugh, “I know I shall be delighted to meet them, as they are such friends of yours.”
“Oh, thank you,” replied Mrs. Osborn, bowing at the compliment.
“Friends of ours, too,” remarked the captain. “Think of John Horton’s fat bank account.”
“Oh, Captain,” cried his wife, with an exasperated expression of countenance, “won’t you—can’t you divorce, for one short evening, the coarseness of business from the refinements of social intercourse? It seems impossible for the captain to rise above his bank counter,” said she, apologetically, to Hugh.
“Not a bad level to maintain,” replied the husband, “and a good many people would feel quite content if they were on a level with the Meade National Bank counter.”
“I do not say anything against your business, Captain, but please do not try to step outside the beaten path with which you are familiar. It is unbecoming in you, and makes you appear quite ridiculous, I assure you.” The captain winced, in silence.
Shortly after they had arisen from the table, Mrs. Osborn went driving, and the captain and Hugh sat on the broad veranda and smoked their cigars, while the veteran told reminiscences of the war. The infinite tenderness with which the captain held his boy was touching to Hugh. The little fellow nestled contentedly on his father’s knee, where he soon fell asleep. When the captain finally arose to carry him within, the child murmured in his dreams, “Papa an’ I is lovers—is lovers.”
“Did you hear that?” exclaimed the old captain to Hugh, and a tear fell from the bronzed face of the father, and rested like a benediction on the soft cheek of the sleeping boy.