A sudden hush had fallen upon Mount Vernon.  From the river below came the distant sounds of the steamer, which, with its crowds safe on board, was now putting off for Washington.  But the lawns and paths of the house, and the formal garden behind it, and all its simple rooms upstairs and down, were now given back to the spring and silence, save for this last party of sightseers.  The curator, after his preliminary lecture on the veranda, took them within; the railings across the doors were removed; they wandered in and out as they pleased.

Perhaps, however, there were only two persons among the six now following the curator to whom the famous place meant anything more than a means of idling away a warm afternoon.  General Hobson carried his white head proudly through it, saying little or nothing.  It was the house of a man who had wrenched half a continent from Great Britain; the English Tory had no intention whatever of bowing the knee.  On the other hand, it was the house of a soldier and a gentleman, representing old English traditions, tastes, and manners.  No modern blatancy, no Yankee smartness anywhere.  Simplicity and moderate wealth, combined with culture ­witness the books of the library ­with land-owning, a family coach, and church on Sundays:  these things the Englishman understood.  Only the slaves, in the picture of Mount Vernon’s past, were strange to him.

They stood at length in the death-chamber, with its low white bed, and its balcony overlooking the river.

“This, ladies, is the room in which General Washington died,” said the curator, patiently repeating the familiar sentence.  “It is, of course, on that account sacred to every true American.”

He bowed his head instinctively as he spoke.  The General looked round him in silence.  His eye was caught by the old hearth, and by the iron plate at the back of it, bearing the letters G. W. and some scroll work.  There flashed into his mind a vision of the December evening on which Washington passed away, the flames flickering in the chimney, the winds breathing round the house and over the snow-bound landscape outside, the dying man in that white bed, and around him, hovering invisibly, the generations of the future.

“He was a traitor to his king and country!” he repeated to himself, firmly.  Then as his patriotic mind was not disturbed by a sense of humour, he added the simple reflection ­“But it is, of course, natural that Americans should consider him a great man.”

The French window beside the bed was thrown open, and these privileged guests were invited to step on to the balcony.  Daphne Floyd was handed out by young Barnes.  They hung over the white balustrade together.  An evening light was on the noble breadth of river; its surface of blue and gold gleamed through the boughs of the trees which girdled the house; blossoms of wild cherry, of dogwood, and magnolia sparkled amid the coverts of young green.

Roger Barnes remarked, with sincerity, as he looked about him, that it was a very pretty place, and he was glad he had not missed it.  Miss Floyd made an absent reply, being in fact occupied in studying the speaker.  It was, so to speak, the first time she had really observed him; and, as they paused on the balcony together, she was suddenly possessed by the same impression as that which had mollified the General’s scolding on board the steamer.  He was indeed handsome, the young Englishman! ­a magnificent figure of a man, in height and breadth and general proportions; and in addition, as it seemed to her, possessed of an absurd and superfluous beauty of feature.  What does a man want with such good looks?  This was perhaps the girl’s first instinctive feeling.  She was, indeed, a little dazzled by her new companion, now that she began to realize him.  As compared with the average man in Washington or New York, here was an exception ­an Apollo! ­for she too thought of the Sun-god.  Miss Floyd could not remember that she had ever had to do with an Apollo before; young Barnes, therefore, was so far an event, a sensation.  In the opera-house she had been vaguely struck by a handsome face.  But here, in the freedom of outdoor dress and movement, he seemed to her a physical king of men; and, at the same time, his easy manner ­which, however, was neither conceited nor ill-bred ­showed him conscious of his advantages.

As they chatted on the balcony she put him through his paces a little.  He had been, it seemed, at Eton and Oxford; and she supposed that he belonged to the rich English world.  His mother was a Lady Barnes; his father, she gathered, was dead; and he was travelling, no doubt, in the lordly English way, to get a little knowledge of the barbarians outside, before he settled down to his own kingdom, and the ways thereof.  She envisaged a big Georgian house in a spreading park, like scores that she had seen in the course of motoring through England the year before.

Meanwhile, the dear young man was evidently trying to talk to her, without too much reference to the gilt gingerbread of this world.  He did not wish that she should feel herself carried into regions where she was not at home, so that his conversation ran amicably on music.  Had she learned it abroad?  He had a cousin who had been trained at Leipsic; wasn’t teaching it trying sometimes ­when people had no ear?  Delicious!  She kept it up, talking with smiles of “my pupils” and “my class,” while they wandered after the others upstairs to the dark low-roofed room above the death-chamber, where Martha Washington spent the last years of her life, in order that from the high dormer window she might command the tomb on the slope below, where her dead husband lay.  The curator told the well-known story.  Mrs. Verrier, standing beside him, asked some questions, showed indeed some animation.

“She shut herself up here?  She lived in this garret?  That she might always see the tomb?  That is really true?”

Barnes, who did not remember to have heard her speak before, turned at the sound of her voice, and looked at her curiously.  She wore an expression ­bitter or incredulous ­which, somehow, amused him.  As they descended again to the garden he communicated his amusement ­discreetly ­to Miss Floyd.

Did Mrs. Verrier imply that no one who was not a fool could show her grief as Mrs. Washington did?  That it was, in fact, a sign of being a fool to regret your husband?

“Did she say that?” asked Miss Floyd quickly.

“Not like that, of course, but ­”

They had now reached the open air again, and found themselves crossing the front court to the kitchen-garden.  Daphne Floyd did not wait till Roger should finish his sentence.  She turned on him a face which was grave if not reproachful.

“I suppose you know Mrs. Verrier’s story?”

“Why, I never saw her before!  I hope I haven’t said anything I oughtn’t to have said?”

“Everybody knows it here,” said Daphne slowly.  “Mrs. Verrier married three years ago.  She married a Jew ­a New Yorker ­who had changed his name.  You know Jews are not in what we call ‘society’ over here?  But Madeleine thought she could do it; she was in love with him, and she meant to be able to do without society.  But she couldn’t do without society; and presently she began to dine out, and go to parties by herself ­he urged her to.  Then, after a bit, people didn’t ask her as much as before; she wasn’t happy; and her people began to talk to him about a divorce ­naturally they had been against her marrying him all along.  He said ­as they and she pleased.  Then, one night about a year ago, he took the train to Niagara ­of course it was a very commonplace thing to do ­and two days afterwards he was found, thrown up by the whirlpool; you know, where all the suicides are found!”

Barnes stopped short in front of his companion, his face flushing.

“What a horrible story!” he said, with emphasis.

Miss Floyd nodded.

“Yes, poor Madeleine has never got over it.”

The young man still stood riveted.

“Of course Mrs. Verrier herself had nothing to do with the talk about divorce?”

Something in his tone roused a combative instinct in his companion.  She, too, coloured, and drew herself up.

“Why shouldn’t she?  She was miserable.  The marriage had been a great mistake.”

“And you allow divorce for that?” said the man, wondering.  “Oh, of course I know every State is different, and some States are worse than others.  But, somehow, I never came across a case like that ­first hand ­before.”

He walked on slowly beside his companion, who held herself a little stiffly.

“I don’t know why you should talk in that way,” she said at last, breaking out in a kind of resentment, “as though all our American views are wrong!  Each nation arranges these things for itself.  You have the laws that suit you; you must allow us those that suit us.”

Barnes paused again, his face expressing a still more complete astonishment.

“You say that?” he said.  “You!”

“And why not?”

“But ­but you are so young!” he said, evidently finding a difficulty in putting his impressions.  “I beg your pardon ­I ought not to talk about it at all.  But it was so odd that ­”

“That I knew anything about Mrs. Verrier’s affairs?” said Miss Floyd, with a rather uncomfortable laugh.  “Well, you see, American girls are not like English ones.  We don’t pretend not to know what everybody knows.”

“Of course,” said Roger hurriedly; “but you wouldn’t think it a fair and square thing to do?”

“Think what?”

“Why, to marry a man, and then talk of divorcing him because people didn’t invite you to their parties.”

“She was very unhappy,” said Daphne stubbornly.

“Well, by Jove!” cried the young man, “she doesn’t look very happy now!”

“No,” Miss Floyd admitted.  “No.  There are many people who think she’ll never get over it.”

“Well, I give it up.”  The Apollo shrugged his handsome shoulders.  “You say it was she who proposed to divorce him? ­yet when the wretched man removes himself, then she breaks her heart!”

“Naturally she didn’t mean him to do it in that way,” said the girl, with impatience.  “Of course you misunderstood me entirely! ­entirely!” she added with an emphasis which suited with her heightened colour and evidently ruffled feelings.

Young Barnes looked at her with embarrassment.  What a queer, hot-tempered girl!  Yet there was something in her which attracted him.  She was graceful even in her impatience.  Her slender neck, and the dark head upon it, her little figure in the white muslin, her dainty arms and hands ­these points in her delighted an honest eye, quite accustomed to appraise the charms of women.  But, by George! she took herself seriously, this little music-teacher.  The air of wilful command about her, the sharpness with which she had just rebuked him, amazed and challenged him.

“I am very sorry if I misunderstood you,” he said, a little on his dignity; “but I thought you ­”

“You thought I sympathized with Mrs. Verrier?  So I do; though of course I am awfully sorry that such a dreadful thing happened.  But you’ll find, Mr. Barnes, that American girls ­” The colour rushed into her small olive cheeks.  “Well, we know all about the old ideas, and we know also too well that there’s only one life, and we don’t mean to have that one spoilt.  The old notions of marriage ­your English notions,” cried the girl facing him ­“make it tyranny!  Why should people stay together when they see it’s a mistake?  We say everybody shall have their chance.  And not one chance only, but more than one.  People find out in marriage what they couldn’t find out before, and so ­”

“You let them chuck it just when they’re tired of it?” laughed Barnes.  “And what about the ­”

“The children?” said Miss Floyd calmly.  “Well, of course, that has to be very carefully considered.  But how can it do children any good to live in an unhappy home?”

“Had Mrs. Verrier any children?”

“Yes, one little girl.”

“I suppose she meant to keep her?”

“Why, of course.”

“And the father didn’t care?”

“Well, I believe he did,” said Daphne unwillingly.  “Yes, that was very sad.  He was quite devoted to her.”

“And you think that’s all right?” Barnes looked at his companion, smiling.

“Well, of course, it was a pity,” she said, with fresh impatience; “I admit it was a pity.  But then, why did she ever marry him?  That was the horrible mistake.”

“I suppose she thought she liked him.”

“Oh, it was he who was so desperately in love with her.  He plagued her into doing it.”

“Poor devil!” said Barnes heartily.  “All right, we’re coming.”

The last words were addressed to General Hobson, waving to them from the kitchen-garden.  They hurried on to join the curator, who took the party for a stroll round some of the fields over which George Washington, in his early married life, was accustomed to ride in summer and winter dawns, inspecting his negroes, his plantation, and his barns.  The grass in these Southern fields was already high; there were shining fruit-trees, blossom-laden, in an orchard copse; and the white dogwood glittered in the woods.

For two people to whom the traditions of the place were dear, this quiet walk through Washington’s land had a charm far beyond that of the reconstructed interior of the house.  Here were things unaltered and unalterable, boundaries, tracks, woods, haunted still by the figure of the young master and bridegroom who brought Patsy Curtis there in 1759.  To the gray-haired curator every foot of them was sacred and familiar; he knew these fields and the records of them better than any detail of his own personal affairs; for years now he had lived in spirit with Washington, through all the hours of the Mount Vernon day; his life was ruled by one great ghost, so that everything actual was comparatively dim.  Boyson too, a fine soldier and a fine intelligence, had a mind stored with Washingtoniana.  Every now and then he and the curator fell back on each other’s company.  They knew well that the others were not worthy of their opportunity; although General Hobson, seeing that most of the memories touched belonged to a period before the Revolution, obeyed the dictates of politeness, and made amends for his taciturnity indoors by a talkative vein outside.

Captain Boyson was not, however, wholly occupied with history or reminiscence.  He perceived very plainly before the walk was over that the General’s good-looking nephew and Miss Daphne Floyd were interested in each other’s conversation.  When they joined the party in the garden it seemed to him that they had been disputing.  Miss Daphne was flushed and a little snappish when spoken to; and the young man looked embarrassed.  But presently he saw that they gravitated to each other, and that, whatever chance combination might be formed during the walk, it always ended for a time in the flight ahead of the two figures, the girl in the rose-coloured sash and the tall handsome youth.  Towards the end of the walk they became separated from the rest of the party, and only arrived at the little station just in time before the cars started.  On this occasion again, they had been clearly arguing and disagreeing; and Daphne had the air of a ruffled bird, her dark eyes glittering, her mouth set in the obstinate lines that Boyson knew by heart.  But again they sat together in the car, and talked and sparred all the way home; while Mrs. Verrier, in a corner of the carriage, shut her hollow eyes, and laid her thin hands one over the other, and in her purple draperies made a picture a la Melisande which was not lost upon her companions.  Boyson’s mind registered a good many grim or terse comments, as occasionally he found himself watching this lady.  Scarcely a year since that hideous business at Niagara, and here she was in that extravagant dress!  He wished his sister would not make a friend of her, and that Daphne Floyd saw less of her.  Miss Daphne had quite enough bees in her own bonnet without adopting Mrs. Verrier’s.

Meanwhile, it was the General who, on the return journey, was made to serve Miss Boyson’s gift for monopoly.  She took possession of him in a business-like way, inquiring into his engagements in Washington, his particular friends, his opinion of the place and the people, with a light-handed acuteness which was more than a match for the Englishman’s instincts of defence.  The General did not mean to give himself away; he intended, indeed, precisely the contrary; but, after every round of conversation Miss Boyson felt herself more and more richly provided with materials for satire at the expense of England and the English tourist, his invincible conceit, insularity, and condescension.  She was a clever though tiresome woman; and expressed herself best in letters.  She promised herself to write a “character” of General Hobson in her next letter to an intimate friend, which should be a masterpiece.  Then, having led him successfully through the rôle of the comic Englishman abroad, she repaid him with information.  She told him, not without some secret amusement at the reprobation it excited, the tragic story of Mrs. Verrier.  She gave him a full history of her brother’s honourable and brilliant career; and here let it be said that the précieuse in her gave way to the sister, and that she talked with feeling.  And finally she asked him with a smile whether he admired Miss Floyd.  The General, who had in fact been observing Miss Floyd and his nephew with some little uneasiness during the preceding half-hour, replied guardedly that Miss Floyd was pretty and picturesque, and apparently a great talker.  Was she a native of Washington?

“You never heard of Miss Floyd? ­of Daphne Floyd?  No?  Ah, well!” ­and she laughed ­“I suppose I ought to take it as a compliment, of a kind.  There are so many rich people now in this queer country of ours that even Daphne Floyds don’t matter.”

“Is Miss Floyd so tremendously rich?”

General Hobson turned a quickened countenance upon her, expressing no more than the interest felt by the ordinary man in all societies ­more strongly, perhaps, at the present day than ever before ­in the mere fact of money.  But Miss Boyson gave it at once a personal meaning, and set herself to play on what she scornfully supposed to be the cupidity of the Englishman.  She produced, indeed, a full and particular account of Daphne Floyd’s parentage, possessions, and prospects, during which the General’s countenance represented him with great fidelity.  A trace of recalcitrance at the beginning ­for it was his opinion that Miss Boyson, like most American women, talked decidedly too much ­gave way to close attention, then to astonishment, and finally to a very animated observation of Miss Floyd’s slender person as she sat a yard or two from him on the other side of the car, laughing, frowning, or chattering with Roger.

“And that poor child has the management of it all?” he said at last, in a tone which did him credit.  He himself had lost an only daughter at twenty-one, and he held old-fashioned views as to the helplessness of women.

But Cecilia Boyson again misunderstood him.

“Oh, yes!” she said, with a cool smile.  “Everything is in her own hands ­everything!  Mrs. Phillips would not dare to interfere.  Daphne always has her own way.”

The General said no more.  Cecilia Boyson looked out of the window at the darkening landscape, thinking with malice of Daphne’s dealings with the male sex.  It had been a Sleeping Beauty story so far.  Treasure for the winning ­a thorn hedge ­and slain lovers!  The handsome Englishman would try it next, no doubt.  All young Englishmen, according to her, were on the look-out for American heiresses.  Music teacher indeed!  She would have given a good deal to hear the conversation of the uncle and nephew when the party broke up.

The General and young Barnes made their farewells at the railway station, and took their way on foot to their hotel.  Washington was steeped in sunset.  The White House, as they passed it, glowed amid its quiet trees.  Lafayette Square, with its fountains and statues, its white and pink magnolias, its strolling, chatting crowd, the fronts of the houses, the long vistas of tree-lined avenues, the street cars, the houses, the motors, all the openings and distances of the beautiful, leisurely place ­they saw them rosily transfigured under a departing sun, which throughout the day had been weaving the quick spells of a southern spring.

“Jolly weather!” said Roger, looking about him.  “And a very nice afternoon.  How long are you staying here, Uncle Archie?”

“I ought to be off at the end of the week; and of course you want to get back to New York?  I say, you seemed to be getting on with that young lady?”

The General turned a rather troubled eye upon his companion.

“She wasn’t bad fun,” said the young man graciously; “but rather an odd little thing!  We quarrelled about every conceivable subject.  And it’s queer how much that kind of girl seems to go about in America.  She goes everywhere and knows everything.  I wonder how she manages it.”

“What kind of girl do you suppose she is?” asked the General, stopping suddenly in the middle of Lafayette Square.

“She told me she taught singing,” said Roger, in a puzzled voice, “to a class of girls in New York.”

The General laughed.

“She seems to have made a fool of you, my dear boy.  She is one of the great heiresses of America.”

Roger’s face expressed a proper astonishment.

“Oh! that’s it, is it?  I thought once or twice there was something fishy ­she was trying it on.  Who told you?”

The General retailed his information.  Miss Daphne Floyd was the orphan daughter of an enormously rich and now deceased lumber-king, of the State of Illinois.  He had made vast sums by lumbering, and then invested in real estate in Chicago and Buffalo, not to speak of a railway or two, and had finally left his daughter and only child in possession of a fortune generally estimated at more than a million sterling.  The money was now entirely in the girl’s power.  Her trustees had been sent about their business, though Miss Floyd was pleased occasionally to consult them.  Mrs. Phillips, her chaperon, had not much influence with her; and it was supposed that Mrs. Verrier advised her more than anyone else.

“Good heavens!” was all that young Barnes could find to say when the story was told.  He walked on absently, flourishing his stick, his face working under the stress of amused meditation.  At last he brought out: 

“You know, Uncle Archie, if you’d heard some of the things Miss Floyd was saying to me, your hair would have stood on end.”

The General raised his shoulders.

“I dare say.  I’m too old-fashioned for America.  The sooner I clear out the better.  Their newspapers make me sick; I hate the hotels ­I hate the cooking; and there isn’t a nation in Europe I don’t feel myself more at home with.”

Roger laughed his clear, good-tempered laugh.  “Oh!  I don’t feel that way at all.  I get on with them capitally.  They’re a magnificent people.  And, as to Miss Floyd, I didn’t mean anything bad, of course.  Only the ideas some of the girls here have, and the way they discuss them ­well, it beats me!”

“What sort of ideas?”

Roger’s handsome brow puckered in the effort to explain.  “They don’t think anything’s settled, you know, as we do at home.  Miss Floyd doesn’t.  They think they’ve got to settle a lot of things that English girls don’t trouble about, because they’re just told to do ’em, or not to do ’em, by the people that look after them!”

“‘Everything hatched over again, and hatched different,’” said the General, who was an admirer of George Eliot; “that’s what they’d like, eh?  Pooh!  That’s when they’re young.  They quiet down, like all the rest of the world.”

Barnes shook his head.  “But they are hatching it over again.  You meet people here in society you couldn’t meet at home.  And it’s all right.  The law backs them up.”

“You’re talking about divorce!” said the General.  “Aye! it’s astounding!  The tales one hears in the smoking-room after dinner!  In Wyoming, apparently, six months’ residence, and there you are.  You prove a little cruelty, the husband makes everything perfectly easy, you say a civil good-bye, and the thing’s done.  Well, they’ll pay for it, my dear Roger ­they’ll pay for it.  Nobody ever yet trifled with the marriage law with impunity.”

The energy of the old man’s bearing became him.

Through Roger’s mind the thought flashed:  “Poor dear Uncle Archie!  If he’d been a New Yorker he’d never have put up with Aunt Lavinia for thirty years!”

They turned into their hotel, and ordered dinner in an hour’s time.  Roger found some English letters waiting for him, and carried them off to his room.  He opened his mother’s first.  Lady Barnes wrote a large and straggling hand, which required many sheets and much postage.  It might have been observed that her son looked at the sheets for a minute, with a certain distaste, before he began upon them.  Yet he was deeply attached to his mother, and it was from her letters week by week that he took his marching orders.  If she only wouldn’t ride her ideas quite so hard; if she would sometimes leave him alone to act for himself!

Here it was again ­the old story: 

“Don’t suppose I put these things before you on my account.  No, indeed; what does it matter what happens to me?  It is when I think that you may have to spend your whole life as a clerk in a bank, unless you rouse yourself now ­(for you know, my dear Roger, though you have very good wits, you’re not as frightfully clever as people have to be nowadays) ­that I begin to despair.  But that is entirely in your own hands.  You have what is far more valuable than cleverness ­you have a delightful disposition, and you are one of the handsomest of men.  There! of course, I know you wouldn’t let me say it to you in your presence; but it’s true all the same.  Any girl should be proud to marry you.  There are plenty of rich girls in America; and if you play your cards properly you will make her and yourself happy.  The grammar of that is not quite right, but you understand me.  Find a nice girl ­of course a nice girl ­with a fortune large enough to put you back in your proper sphere; and it doesn’t matter about me.  You will pay my rent, I dare say, and help me through when I want it; but that’s nothing.  The point is, that I cannot submit to your career being spoiled through your poor father’s mad imprudence.  You must retrieve yourself ­you must.  Nobody is anything nowadays in the world without money; you know that as well as I do.  And besides, there is another reason.  You have got to forget the affair of last spring, to put it entirely behind you, to show that horrid woman who threw you over that you will make your life a success in spite of her.  Rouse yourself, my dear Roger, and do your best.  I hope by now you have forwarded all my introductions?  You have your opportunity, and I must say you will be a great fool if you don’t use it. Do use it my dear boy, for my sake.  I am a very unhappy woman; but you might, if you would, bring back a little brightness to my life.”

After he had read the letter, young Barnes sat for some time in a brown study on the edge of his bed.  The letter contained only one more repetition of counsels that had been dinned into his ears for months ­almost ever since the financial crash which had followed his father’s death, and the crash of another sort, concerning himself, which had come so quick upon it.  His thoughts returned, as they always did at some hour of the day or night, to the “horrid woman.”  Yes, that had hit him hard; the lad’s heart still throbbed with bitterness as he thought of it.  He had never felt anything so much; he didn’t believe he should ever mind anything so much again.  “I’m not one of your sentimental sort,” he thought, half congratulating himself, half in self-contempt.  But he could not get her out of his head; he wondered if he ever should.  And it had gone pretty far too.  By Jove! that night in the orchard! ­when she had kissed him, and thrown her arms round his neck!  And then to write him that letter, when things were at their worst.  She might have done the thing decently.  Have treated a fellow kindly at least.  Well, of course, it was all done with.  Yes, it was.  Done with!

He got up and began to pace his small room, his hands in his pockets, thinking of the night in the orchard.  Then gradually the smart lessened, and his thoughts passed away to other things.  That little Yankee girl had really made good sport all the way home.  He had not been dull for a moment; she had teased and provoked him so.  Her eyes, too, were wonderfully pretty, and her small, pointed chin, and her witch-like imperious ways.  Was it her money, the sense that she could do as she liked with most people, that made her so domineering and masterful?  Very likely.  On the journey he had put it down just to a natural and very surprising impudence.  That was when he believed that she was a teacher, earning her bread.  But the impudence had not prevented him from finding it much more amusing to talk to her than to anybody else.

And, on the whole, he thought she had not disliked him, though she had said the rudest things to him, and he had retaliated.  She had asked him, indeed, to join them in an excursion the following day, and to tea at the Country Club.  He had meant, if possible, to go back to New York on the morrow.  But perhaps a day or two longer ­

So she had a million ­the little sprite?  She was and would be a handful! ­with a fortune or without it.  And possessed also of the most extraordinary opinions.  But he thought he would go on the excursion, and to the Country Club.  He began to fold his mother’s letter, and put it back into its envelope, while a slight flush mounted in his cheeks, and the young mouth that was still so boyish and candid took a stiffer line.