At the
next turn of the talk he was forced to admit that not even Patricia
herself could speak more intelligently of the English social problem;
and when it came to the vital questions of the American moment he gasped
again and wondered if he were awake--if it could be possible that this
out-of-place Georgian mansion and its charming mistress could be part
and parcel of the West which had so far outgrown the boyhood memories.
Since all things mundane must have an end, the old butler with the
white-fringed head came at last to show him the way to his luxurious
lodgings on the second floor of the mansion. With a touch of hospitality
which carried Blount back to his one winter in the South, the hostess
went with him as far as the stair-foot, and her "Good-night" was still
ringing musically in his ears when the old negro lighted the candles in
the guest-room, put another stick of wood on the small fire that was
crackling and snapping cheerfully on the hearth, and bobbed and bowed
his way to the door. Blount saw his last chance for better information
vanishing for the night, and once more broke with the traditions.
"Uncle Barnabas, before you go, suppose you tell me where I am," he
suggested. "Whose house is this?"
The old man stopped on the threshold, chuckling gleefully. "A-ain't you
know dat, sah?--a-ain't de mistis done tell you dat? You's at Wa'trace
Hall--Mahsteh Majah's new country-house; yes, sah; dat's whah you
is--kee-hee!"
"And who is 'Master Major'?" pressed Blount, whose bewilderment grew
with every fresh attempt to dispel it.
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