An American Politician | Page 2

she understood Boston business to some extent, and called it finance, but she despised the New York Stock Market and denounced its doings as gambling. She made fine distinctions, but she was a woman of sense, and was generally more likely to be right than wrong when she had a definite opinion, or expressed a definite dislike. Her religious views were simple and unobtrusive, and never changed.
Her custom of being at home after five o'clock was perhaps the only deviation she allowed herself from the established manners of her native city, and since two or three other ladies had followed her example, it had come to be regarded as a perfectly harmless idiosyncrasy for which she could not properly be blamed. The people who came to see her were chiefly men, except, of course, on the inevitable Monday.
A day or two before Christmas, then, Mrs. Sam Wyndham was at home in the afternoon. The snow lay thick and hard outside, and the sleigh bells tinkled unceasingly as the sleighs slipped by the window, gleaming and glittering in the deep red glow of the sunset. The track was well beaten for miles away, down Beacon Street and across the Milldam to the country, and the pavements were strewn with ashes to give a foothold for pedestrians.
For the frost was sharp and lasting. But within, Mrs. Wyndham sat by the fire with a small table before her, and one companion by her side, for whom she was pouring tea.
"Tell me all about your summer, Mr. Vancouver," said she, teasing the flame of the spirit-lamp into better shape with a small silver instrument.
Mr. Pocock Vancouver leaned back in his corner of the sofa and looked at the fire, then at the window, and finally at his hostess, before he answered. He was a pale man and slight of figure, with dark eyes, and his carefully brushed hair, turning gray at the temples and over his forehead, threw his delicate, intelligent face into relief.
"I have not done much," he answered, rather absently, as though trying to find something interesting in his reminiscences; and he watched Mrs. Wyndham as she filled a cup. He was not the least anxious to talk, it seemed, and he had an air of being thoroughly at home.
"You were in England most of the time, were you not?"
"Yes--I believe I was. Oh, by the bye, I met Harrington in Paris; I thought he meant to stay at home."
"He often goes abroad," said Mrs. Wyndham indifferently. "One lump of sugar?"
"Two, if you please--no cream--thanks. Does he go to Paris to convert the French, or to glean materials for converting other people?" inquired Mr. Vancouver languidly.
"I am sure I cannot tell you," answered the lady, still indifferently. "What do you go to Paris for?"
"Principally to renew my acquaintance with civilized institutions and humanizing influences. What does anybody go abroad for?"
"You always talk like that when you come home, Mr. Vancouver," said Mrs. Wyndham. "But nevertheless you come back and seem to find Boston bearable. It is not such a bad place after all, is it?"
"If it were not for half a dozen people here, I would never come back at all," said Mr. Vancouver. "But then, I am not originally one of you, and I suppose that makes a difference."
"And pray, who are the half dozen people who procure us the honor of your presence?"
"You are one of them, Mrs. Wyndham," he answered, looking at her.
"I am much obliged," she replied, demurely. "Any one else?"
"Oh--John Harrington," said Vancouver with a little laugh.
"Really?" said Mrs. Wyndham, innocently; "I did not know you were such good friends."
Mr. Vancouver sipped his tea in silence for a moment and stared at the fire.
"I have a great respect for Harrington," he said at last. "He interests me very much, and I like to meet him." He spoke seriously, as though thoroughly in earnest. The faintest look of amusement came to Mrs. Wyndham's face for a moment.
"I am glad of that," she said; "Mr. Harrington is a very good friend of mine. Do you mind lighting those candles? The days are dreadfully short."
Pocock Vancouver rose with alacrity and performed the service required.
"By the way," said Mrs. Wyndham, watching him, "I have a surprise for you."
"Indeed?"
"Yes, an immense surprise. Do you remember Sybil Brandon?"
"Charlie Brandon's daughter? Very well--saw her at Newport some time ago. Lily-white style--all eyes and hair."
"You ought to remember her. You used to rave about her, and you nearly ruined yourself in roses. You will have another chance; she is going to spend the winter with me."
"Not really?" ejaculated Mr. Vancouver, in some surprise, as he again sat down upon the sofa.
"Yes; you know she is all alone in the world now."
"What? Is her mother dead too?"
"She died last spring, in Paris. I thought you knew."
"No,"