"And how are you all getting on here?" asked Pembroke, as Petrarch officiously helped him off with his great-coat.
"Tollerbul, tollerbul, sir. Old marse, he mighty orkard sometimes. He swar an' takes de Lord's name in vain, spite o' de commandment 'Doan never you swar at all.' I try ter make him behave hisse'f ter de policemens an' sech, but he quile all de time he gwine long de street."
He ushered Pembroke through the drawing room, into a little room beyond. On a sofa drawn up to the wood fire, sat Olivia, making a pretty home-like picture, in the half light, contrasted with the dreary drawing-room beyond, and the dismal drizzle outside.
They had not met for nearly two years. The session of Congress had lasted almost through the year, and when he had been in the county last, Olivia was away in the mountains. He noticed instantly that she was very, very pretty, but her beauty had taken a graver and more womanly cast. Oh, the elaborate ease, to cover the overpowering awkwardness of those former tête-à-tête meetings! Pembroke felt this acutely when he first saw her—but it vanished strangely at the moment that Olivia held out her little hand and spoke to him. Her voice, her manner, were pleasantly natural. It carried him back to the old days when he was gradually slipping into love with her. How grateful and soothing had been her native charm as an escape from Madame Koller's exaggerated heroics!
"Papa will be sorry to miss you," she said point-
