“I will. Can you tell me the name of this flower which I found in your greenhouse. It looks much like a California blossom.”
“Perhaps it is. Father bought it of a half-crazy old man who came here one day. Do you know him?”
Islington laughed. “I am afraid not. But let me present this in a less business-like fashion.”
“Thank you. Remind me to give you one in return before you go,--or will you choose yourself?”
They had both risen as by a common instinct.
The cool flower-like hand lay in his for an instant.
“Will you oblige me by putting aside that leaf a moment before I go?”
“But my eyes are red, and I look like a perfect fright.”
Yet, after a long pause, the leaf fluttered down, and a pair of very beautiful but withal very clear and critical eyes met his. Islington was constrained to look away. When he turned again, she was gone.
It was Chalker, the English groom, out of breath with running.
“Seein' you alone, sir,--beg your pardon, sir,--but there's a person--”
“A person! what the devil do you mean? Speak English--no, damn it, I mean don't,” said Islington, snappishly.
“I sed a person, sir. Beg pardon--no offence--but not a gent, sir. In the lib'ry.”
A little amused even through the utter dissatisfaction with himself and vague loneliness that had suddenly come upon him, Islington, as he walked toward the lodge, asked, “Why isn't he a gent?
“No gent--beggin' your pardin, sir--'ud guy a man in sarvis, sir. Takes me 'ands so, sir, as I sits in the rumble at the gate, and puts 'em downd so, sir, and sez, 'Put 'em in your pocket, young man,--or is it a road agint you expects to see, that you 'olds hup your 'ands, hand crosses 'em like to that,' sez he. ''Old 'ard,' sez he, 'on the short curves, or you'll bust your precious crust,' sez he. And hasks for you, sir. This way, sir.”
They entered the lodge. Islington hurried down the long Gothic hall, and opened the library door.
In an arm-chair, in the centre of the room, a man sat apparently contemplating a large, stiff, yellow hat with an enormous brim, that was placed on the floor before him. His hands rested lightly between his knees, but one foot was drawn up at the side of his chair in a peculiar manner. In the first glance that Islington gave, the attitude in some odd, irreconcilable way suggested a brake. In another moment he dashed across the room, and, holding out both hands, cried, “Yuba Bill!”