“A stifling hot day!” General Hobson lifted his hat and mopped his forehead indignantly.  “What on earth this place can be like in June I can’t conceive!  The tenth of April, and I’ll be bound the thermometer’s somewhere near eighty in the shade.  You never find the English climate playing you these tricks.”

Roger Barnes looked at his uncle with amusement.

“Don’t you like heat, Uncle Archie?  Ah, but I forgot, it’s American heat.”

“I like a climate you can depend on,” said the General, quite conscious that he was talking absurdly, yet none the less determined to talk, by way of relief to some obscure annoyance.  “Here we are sweltering in this abominable heat, and in New York last week they had a blizzard, and here, even, it was cold enough to give me rheumatism.  The climate’s always in extremes ­like the people.”

“I’m sorry to find you don’t like the States, Uncle Archie.”

The young man sat down beside his uncle.  They were in the deck saloon of a steamer which had left Washington about an hour before for Mount Vernon.  Through the open doorway to their left they saw a wide expanse of river, flowing between banks of spring green, and above it thunderous clouds, in a hot blue.  The saloon, and the decks outside, held a great crowd of passengers, of whom the majority were women.

The tone in which Roger Barnes spoke was good-tempered, but quite perfunctory.  Any shrewd observer would have seen that whether his uncle liked the States or not did not in truth matter to him a whit.

“And I consider all the arrangements for this trip most unsatisfactory,” the General continued angrily.  “The steamer’s too small, the landing-place is too small, the crowd getting on board was something disgraceful.  They’ll have a shocking accident one of these days.  And what on earth are all these women here for ­in the middle of the day?  It’s not a holiday.”

“I believe it’s a teachers’ excursion,” said young Barnes absently, his eyes resting on the rows of young women in white blouses and spring hats who sat in close-packed chairs upon the deck ­an eager, talkative host.

“H’m ­Teachers!” The General’s tone was still more pugnacious.  “Going to learn more lies about us, I suppose, that they may teach them to school-children?  I was turning over some of their school-books in a shop yesterday.  Perfectly abominable!  It’s monstrous what they teach the children here about what they’re pleased to call their War of Independence.  All that we did was to ask them to pay something for their own protection.  What did it matter to us whether they were mopped up by the Indians, or the French, or not?  ’But if you want us to go to all the expense and trouble of protecting you, and putting down those fellows, why, hang it,’ we said, ‘you must pay some of the bill!’ That was all English Ministers asked; and perfectly right too.  And as for the men they make such a fuss about, Samuel Adams, and John Adams, and Franklin, and all the rest of the crew, I tell you, the stuff they teach American school-children about them is a poisoning of the wells!  Franklin was a man of profligate life, whom I would never have admitted inside my doors!  And as for the Adamses ­intriguers ­canting fellows! ­both of them.”

“Well, at least you’ll give them George Washington.”  As he spoke, Barnes concealed a yawn, followed immediately afterwards by a look of greater alertness, caused by the discovery that a girl sitting not far from the doorway in the crowd outside was certainly pretty.

The red-faced, white-haired General paused a moment before replying, then broke out:  “What George Washington might have been if he had held a straight course I am not prepared to say.  As it is, I don’t hesitate for a moment!  George Washington was nothing more nor less than a rebel ­a damned rebel!  And what Englishmen mean by joining in the worship of him I’ve never been able to understand.”

“I say, uncle, take care,” said the young man, looking round him, and observing with some relief that they seemed to have the saloon to themselves.  “These Yankees will stand most things, but ­”

“You needn’t trouble yourself, Roger,” was the testy reply; “I am not in the habit of annoying my neighbours.  Well now, look here, what I want to know is, what is the meaning of this absurd journey of yours?”

The young man’s frown increased.  He began to poke the floor with his stick.  “I don’t know why you call it absurd?”

“To me it seems both absurd and extravagant,” said the other with emphasis.  “The last thing I heard of you was that Burdon and Co. had offered you a place in their office, and that you were prepared to take it.  When a man has lost his money and becomes dependent upon others, the sooner he gets to work the better.”

Roger Barnes reddened under the onslaught, and the sulky expression of his handsome mouth became more pronounced.  “I think my mother and I ought to be left to judge for ourselves,” he said rather hotly.  “We haven’t asked anybody for money yet, Uncle Archie.  Burdon and Co. can have me in September just as well as now; and my mother wished me to make some friends over here who might be useful to me.”

“Useful to you.  How?”

“I think that’s my affair.  In this country there are always openings ­things turning up ­chances ­you can’t get at home.”

The General gave a disapproving laugh.  “The only chance that’ll help you, Roger, at present ­excuse me if I speak frankly ­is the chance of regular work.  Your poor mother has nothing but her small fixed income, and you haven’t a farthing to chuck away on what you call chances.  Why, your passage by the Lucania alone must have cost a pretty penny.  I’ll bet my hat you came first class.”

The young man was clearly on the brink of an explosion, but controlled himself with an effort.  “I paid the winter rate; and mother who knows the Cunard people very well, got a reduction.  I assure you, Uncle Archie, neither mother nor I is a fool, and we know quite well what we are about.”

As he spoke he raised himself with energy, and looked his companion in the face.

The General, surveying him, was mollified, as usual, by nothing in the world but the youth’s extraordinary good looks.  Roger Barnes’s good looks had been, indeed, from his childhood upward the distinguishing and remarkable feature about him.  He had been a king among his schoolfellows largely because of them, and of the athletic prowess which went with them; and while at Oxford he had been cast for the part of Apollo in “The Eumenides,” Nature having clearly designed him for it in spite of the lamentable deficiencies in his Greek scholarship, which gave his prompters and trainers so much trouble.  Nose, chin, brow, the poising of the head on the shoulders, the large blue eyes, lidded and set with a Greek perfection, the delicacy of the lean, slightly hollow cheeks, combined with the astonishing beauty and strength of the head, crowned with ambrosial curls ­these possessions, together with others, had so far made life an easy and triumphant business for their owner.  The “others,” let it be noted, however, had till now always been present; and, chief amongst them, great wealth and an important and popular father.  The father was recently dead, as the black band on the young man’s arm still testified, and the wealth had suddenly vanished, wholly and completely, in one of the financial calamities of the day.  General Hobson, contemplating his nephew, and mollified, as we have said, by his splendid appearance, kept saying to himself:  “He hasn’t a farthing but what poor Laura allows him; he has the tastes of forty thousand a year; a very indifferent education; and what the deuce is he going to do?”

Aloud he said: 

“Well, all I know is, I had a deplorable letter last mail from your poor mother.”

The young man turned his head away, his cigarette still poised at his lips.  “Yes, I know ­mother’s awfully down.”

“Well, certainly your mother was never meant for a poor woman,” said the General, with energy.  “She takes it uncommonly hard.”

Roger, with face still averted, showed no inclination to discuss his mother’s character on these lines.

“However, she’ll get along all right, if you do your duty by her,” added the General, not without a certain severity.

“I mean to do it, sir.”  Barnes rose as he spoke.  “I should think we’re getting near Mount Vernon by this time.  I’ll go and look.”

He made his way to the outer deck, the General following.  The old soldier, as he moved through the crowd of chairs in the wake of his nephew, was well aware of the attention excited by the young man.  The eyes of many damsels were upon him; and, while the girls looked and said nothing, their mothers laughed and whispered to each other as the young Apollo passed.

Standing at the side of the steamer, the uncle and nephew perceived that the river had widened to a still more stately breadth, and that, on the southern bank, a white building, high placed, had come into view.  The excursionists crowded to look, expressing their admiration for the natural scene and their sense of its patriotic meaning in a frank, enthusiastic chatter, which presently enveloped the General, standing in a silent endurance like a rock among the waves.

“Isn’t it fine to think of his coming back here to die, so simply, when he’d made a nation?” said a young girl ­perhaps from Omaha ­to her companion.  “Wasn’t it just lovely?”

Her voice, restrained, yet warm with feeling, annoyed General Hobson.  He moved away, and as they hung over the taffrail he said, with suppressed venom to his companion:  “Much good it did them to be ‘made a nation’!  Look at their press ­look at their corruption ­their divorce scandals!”

Barnes laughed, and threw his cigarette-end into the swift brown water.

“Upon my word, Uncle Archie, I can’t play up to you.  As far as I’ve gone, I like America and the Americans.”

“Which means, I suppose, that your mother gave you some introductions to rich people in New York, and they entertained you?” said the General drily.

“Well, is there any crime in that?  I met a lot of uncommonly nice people.”

“And didn’t particularly bless me when I wired to you to come here?”

The young man laughed again and paused a moment before replying.

“I’m always very glad to come and keep you company, Uncle Archie.”

The old General reddened a little.  Privately, he knew very well that his telegram summoning young Barnes from New York had been an act of tyranny ­mild, elderly tyranny.  He was not amusing himself in Washington, where he was paying a second visit after an absence of twenty years.  His English soul was disturbed and affronted by a wholly new realization of the strength of America, by the giant forces of the young nation, as they are to be felt pulsing in the Federal City.  He was up in arms for the Old World, wondering sorely and secretly what the New might do with her in the times to come, and foreseeing an ever-increasing deluge of unlovely things ­ideals, principles, manners ­flowing from this western civilization, under which his own gods were already half buried, and would soon be hidden beyond recovery.  And in this despondency which possessed him, in spite of the attentions of Embassies, and luncheons at the White House, he had heard that Roger was in New York, and could not resist the temptation to send for him.  After all, Roger was his heir.  Unless the boy flagrantly misbehaved himself, he would inherit General Hobson’s money and small estate in Northamptonshire.  Before the death of Roger’s father this prospective inheritance, indeed, had not counted for very much in the family calculations.  The General had even felt a shyness in alluding to a matter so insignificant in comparison with the general scale on which the Barnes family lived.  But since the death of Barnes pere, and the complete pecuniary ruin revealed by that event, Roger’s expectations from his uncle had assumed a new importance.  The General was quite aware of it.  A year before this date he would never have dreamed of summoning Roger to attend him at a moment’s notice.  That he had done so, and that Roger had obeyed him, showed how closely even the family relation may depend on pecuniary circumstance.

The steamer swung round to the landing-place under the hill of Mount Vernon.  Again, in disembarkation, there was a crowd and rush which set the General’s temper on edge.  He emerged from it, hot and breathless, after haranguing the functionary at the gates on the inadequacy of the arrangements and the likelihood of an accident.  Then he and Roger strode up the steep path, beside beds of blue periwinkles, and under old trees just bursting into leaf.  A spring sunshine was in the air and on the grass, which had already donned its “livelier emerald.”  The air quivered with heat, and the blue dome of sky diffused it.  Here and there a magnolia in full flower on the green slopes spread its splendour of white or pinkish blossom to the sun; the great river, shimmering and streaked with light, swept round the hill, and out into a pearly distance; and on the height the old pillared house with its flanking colonnades stood under the thinly green trees in a sharp light and shade which emphasized all its delightful qualities ­made, as it were, the most of it, in response to the eagerness of the crowd now flowing round it.

Half-way up the hill Roger suddenly raised his hat.

“Who is it?” said the General, putting up his eyeglass.

“The girl we met last night and her brother.”

“Captain Boyson?  So it is.  They seem to have a party with them.”

The lady whom young Barnes had greeted moved toward the Englishmen, followed by her brother.

“I didn’t know we were to meet to-day,” she said gaily, with a mocking look at Roger.  “I thought you said you were bored ­and going back to New York.”

Roger was relieved to see that his uncle, engaged in shaking hands with the American officer, had not heard this remark.  Tact was certainly not Miss Boyson’s strong point.

“I am sure I never said anything of the kind,” he said, looking brazenly down upon her; “nothing in the least like it.”

“Oh! oh!” the lady protested, with an extravagant archness.  “Mrs. Phillips, this is Mr. Barnes.  We were just talking of him, weren’t we?”

An elderly lady, quietly dressed in gray silk, turned, bowed, and looked curiously at the Englishman.

“I hear you and Miss Boyson discovered some common friends last night.”

“We did, indeed.  Miss Boyson posted me up in a lot of the people I have been seeing in New York.  I am most awfully obliged to her,” said Barnes.  His manner was easy and forthcoming, the manner of one accustomed to feel himself welcome and considered.

“I behaved like a walking ‘Who’s Who,’ only I was much more interesting, and didn’t tell half as many lies,” said the girl, in a high penetrating voice.  “Daphne, let me introduce you to Mr. Barnes.  Mr. Barnes ­Miss Floyd; Mr. Barnes ­Mrs. Verrier.”

Two ladies beyond Mrs. Phillips made vague inclinations, and young Barnes raised his hat.  The whole party walked on up the hill.  The General and Captain Boyson fell into a discussion of some military news of the morning.  Roger Barnes was mostly occupied with Miss Boyson, who had a turn for monopoly; and he could only glance occasionally at the two ladies with Mrs. Phillips.  But he was conscious that the whole group made a distinguished appearance.  Among the hundreds of young women streaming over the lawn they were clearly marked out by their carriage and their clothes ­especially their clothes ­as belonging to the fastidious cosmopolitan class, between whom and the young school-teachers from the West, in their white cotton blouses, leathern belts, and neat short skirts, the links were few.  Miss Floyd, indeed, was dressed with great simplicity.  A white muslin dress, a la Romney, with a rose at the waist, and a black-and-white Romney hat deeply shading the face beneath ­nothing could have been plainer; yet it was a simplicity not to be had for the asking, a calculated, a Parisian simplicity; while her companion, Mrs. Verrier, was attired in what the fashion-papers would have called a “creation in mauve.”  And Roger knew quite enough about women’s dress to be aware that it was a creation that meant dollars.  She was a tall, dark-eyed, olive-skinned woman, thin almost to emaciation:  and young Barnes noticed that, while Miss Floyd talked much, Mrs. Verrier answered little, and smiled less.  She moved with a languid step, and looked absently about her.  Roger could not make up his mind whether she was American or English.

In the house itself the crowd was almost unmanageable.  The General’s ire was roused afresh when he was warned off the front door by the polite official on guard, and made to mount a back stair in the midst of a panting multitude.

“I really cannot congratulate you on your management of these affairs,” he said severely to Captain Boyson, as they stood at last, breathless and hustled, on the first-floor landing.  “It is most improper, I may say dangerous, to admit such a number at once.  And, as for seeing the house, it is simply impossible.  I shall make my way down as soon as possible, and go for a walk.”

Captain Boyson looked perplexed.  General Hobson was a person of eminence; Washington had been very civil to him; and the American officer felt a kind of host’s responsibility.

“Wait a moment; I’ll try and find somebody.”  He disappeared, and the party maintained itself with difficulty in a corner of the landing against the pressure of a stream of damsels, who crowded to the open doors of the rooms, looked through the gratings which bar the entrance without obstructing the view, chattered, and moved on.  General Hobson stood against the wall, a model of angry patience.  Cecilia Boyson, glancing at him with a laughing eye, said in Roger’s ear:  “How sad it is that your uncle dislikes us so!”

“Us?  What do you mean?”

“That he hates America so.  Oh, don’t say he doesn’t, because I’ve watched him, at one, two, three parties.  He thinks we’re a horrid, noisy, vulgar people, with most unpleasant voices, and he thanks God for the Atlantic ­and hopes he may never see us again.”

“Well, of course, if you’re so certain about it, there’s no good in contradicting you.  Did you say that lady’s name was Floyd?  Could I have seen her last week in New York?”

“Quite possible.  Perhaps you heard something about her?”

“No,” said Barnes, after thinking a moment.  “I remember ­somebody pointed her out at the opera.”

His companion looked at him with a kind of hard amusement.  Cecilia Boyson was only five-and-twenty, but there was already something in her that foretold the formidable old maid.

“Well, when people begin upon Daphne Floyd,” she said, “they generally go through with it.  Ah! here comes Alfred.”

Captain Boyson, pushing his way through the throng, announced to his sister and General Hobson that he had found the curator in charge of the house, who sent a message by him to the effect that if only the party would wait till four o’clock, the official closing hour, he himself would have great pleasure in showing them the house when all the tourists of the day had taken their departure.

“Then,” said Miss Floyd, smiling at the General, “let us go and sit in the garden, and feel ourselves aristocratic and superior.”

The General’s brow smoothed.  Voice and smile were alike engaging.  Their owner was not exactly pretty, but she had very large dark eyes, and a small glowing face, set in a profusion of hair.  Her neck, the General thought, was the slenderest he had ever seen, and the slight round lines of her form spoke of youth in its first delicate maturity.  He followed her obediently, and they were all soon in the garden again, and free of the crowd.  Miss Floyd led the way across the grass with the General.

“Ah! now you will see the General will begin to like us,” said Miss Boyson.  “Daphne has got him in hand.”

Her tone was slightly mocking.  Barnes observed the two figures in front of them, and remarked that Miss Floyd had a “very ­well ­a very foreign look.”

“Not English, you mean? ­or American?  Well, naturally.  Her mother was a Spaniard ­a South American ­from Buenos Ayres.  That’s why she is so dark, and so graceful.”

“I never saw a prettier dress,” said Barnes, following the slight figure with his eyes.  “It’s so simple.”

His companion laughed again.  The manner of the laugh puzzled her companion, but, just as he was about to put a question, the General and the young lady paused in front, to let the rest of the party come up with them.  Miss Floyd proposed a seat a little way down the slope, where they might wait the half-hour appointed.

That half-hour passed quickly for all concerned.  In looking back upon it afterwards two of the party were conscious that it had all hung upon one person.  Daphne Floyd sat beside the General, who paid her a half-reluctant, half-fascinated attention.  Without any apparent effort on her part she became indeed the centre of the group who sat or lay on the grass.  All faces were turned towards her, and presently all ears listened for her remarks.  Her talk was young and vivacious, nothing more.  But all she said came, as it were, steeped in personality, a personality so energetic, so charged with movement and with action that it arrested the spectators ­not always agreeably.  It was like the passage of a train through the darkness, when, for the moment, the quietest landscape turns to fire and force.

The comparison suggested itself to Captain Boyson as he lay watching her, only to be received with an inward mockery, half bitter, half amused.  This girl was always awakening in him these violent or desperate images.  Was it her fault that she possessed those brilliant eyes ­eyes, as it seemed, of the typical, essential woman? ­and that downy brunette skin, with the tinge in it of damask red? ­and that instinctive art of lovely gesture in which her whole being seemed to express itself?  Boyson, who was not only a rising soldier, but an excellent amateur artist, knew every line of the face by heart.  He had drawn Miss Daphne from the life on several occasions; and from memory scores of times.  He was not likely to draw her from life any more; and thereby hung a tale.  As far as he was concerned the train had passed ­in flame and fury ­leaving an echoing silence behind it.

What folly!  He turned resolutely to Mrs. Verrier, and tried to discuss with her an exhibition of French art recently opened in Washington.  In vain.  After a few sentences, the talk between them dropped, and both he and she were once more watching Miss Floyd, and joining in the conversation whenever she chose to draw them in.

As for Roger Barnes, he too was steadily subjugated ­up to a certain point.  He was not sure that he liked Miss Floyd, or her conversation.  She was so much mistress of herself and of the company, that his masculine vanity occasionally rebelled.  A little flirt! ­that gave herself airs.  It startled his English mind that at twenty ­for she could be no more ­a girl should so take the floor, and hold the stage.  Sometimes he turned his back upon her ­almost; and Cecilia Boyson held him.  But, if there was too much of the “eternal womanly” in Miss Floyd, there was not enough in Cecilia Boyson.  He began to discover also that she was too clever for him, and was in fact talking down to him.  Some of the things that she said to him about New York and Washington puzzled him extremely.  She was, he supposed, intellectual; but the intellectual women in England did not talk in the same way.  He was equal to them, or flattered himself that he was; but Miss Boyson was beyond him.  He was getting into great difficulties with her, when suddenly Miss Floyd addressed him: 

“I am sure I saw you in New York, at the opera?”

She bent over to him as she spoke, and lowered her voice.  Her look was merry, perhaps a little satirical.  It put him on his guard.

“Yes, I was there.  You were pointed out to me.”

“You were with some old friends of mine.  I suppose they gave you an account of me?”

“They were beginning it; but then Melba began to sing, and some horrid people in the next box said ‘Hush!’”

She studied him in a laughing silence a moment, her chin on her hand, then said: 

“That is the worst of the opera; it stops so much interesting conversation.”

“You don’t care for the music?”

“Oh, I am a musician!” she said quickly.  “I teach it.  But I am like the mad King of Bavaria ­I want an opera-house to myself.”

“You teach it?” he said, in amazement.

She nodded, smiling.  At that moment a bell rang.  Captain Boyson rose.

“That’s the signal for closing.  I think we ought to be moving up.”

They strolled slowly towards the house, watching the stream of excursionists pour out of the house and gardens, and wind down the hill; sounds of talk and laughter filled the air, and the western sun touched the spring hats and dresses.

“The holidays end to-morrow,” said Daphne Floyd demurely, as she walked beside young Barnes.  And she looked smiling at the crowd of young women, as though claiming solidarity with them.

A teacher?  A teacher of music? ­with that self-confidence ­that air as though the world belonged to her!  The young man was greatly mystified.  But he reminded himself that he was in a democratic country where all men ­and especially all women ­are equal.  Not that the young women now streaming to the steamboat were Miss Floyd’s equals.  The notion was absurd.  All that appeared to be true was that Miss Floyd, in any circumstances, would be, and was, the equal of anybody.

“How charming your friend is!” he said presently to Cecilia Boyson, as they lingered on the veranda, waiting for the curator, in a scene now deserted.  “She tells me she is a teacher of music.”

Cecilia Boyson looked at him in amazement, and made him repeat his remark.  As he did so, his uncle called him, and he turned away.  Miss Boyson leant against one of the pillars of the veranda, shaking with suppressed laughter.

But at that moment the curator, a gentle, gray-haired man, appeared, shaking hands with the General, and bowing to the ladies.  He gave them a little discourse on the house and its history, as they stood on the veranda; and private conversation was no longer possible.