“I think, my dear,” said Tramlay to his wife, who had been turning the backs of a magazine, “that I’ll take our friend around to the club with me for half an hour, just to show him how city men squander their time and keep away from their families. I won’t be long gone.”
“Oh, papa! right after dinner? We’ve scarcely seen Phil yet, to ask him any questions.”
“Plenty of time for that,” the merchant replied. “We’ll see him often: eh, Hayn?”
“Suppose you drop him at my club, on your way home?” suggested Marge. “I shall be there.”
“Good! thanks: very kind of you. He’ll see some men nearer his own age: all our members are middle-aged and stupid.”
“I think it’s real mean of you both,” said Lucia, with a pretty pout.
Phil looked as if he thought so too. At Haynton it was the custom, when one went out to dinner,--or supper, which was the evening meal,--to spend the evening with the entertainer. But objection seemed out of place: the merchant had gone for his hat and coat, and Marge made his adieus and was donning his overcoat at the mirror in the hall.
“I’m very sorry to go,” said Phil to Lucia. His eyes wandered about the room, as if to take a distinct picture of it with him: they finally rested on the picture of “The Adieu.”
“You shall take my forgiveness with you,” said the girl, “if you will solemnly promise never, never to laugh at me again.”
“I never will,” said Phil, solemnly; then Lucia laughed and offered him her hand. Perhaps it was because Phil had just removed his eyes from “The Adieu” and was himself about to say good-by, that he raised the little hand to his lip. Fortunately for her own peace of mind, Mrs. Tramlay did not see the act, for she had stepped into the library to speak to her husband; Marge, however, was amazed at what he saw in the mirror, and, a second or two later, at Phil’s entire composure. Lucia’s manner, however, puzzled him; for she seemed somewhat disconcerted, and her complexion had suddenly become more brilliant than usual.
For years Philip Hayn had been wondering about the great city only a hundred or two miles distant from his home,--wondering, reading, and questioning,--until he knew far more about it than thousands of men born and reared on Manhattan Island. He had dreamed of the day when he would visit the city, and had formed plans and itineraries for consuming such time as he hoped to have, changing them again and again to conform to longer or shorter periods. He was prepared to be an intelligent tourist, to see only what was well worth being looked at, and to study much that could not be seen in any other place which he was ever likely to visit.
