I was still thinking the ode over as I dressed for
breakfast, for which I was late, owing to my hair,
which the changes in the weather had rendered somewhat
recalcitrant. Yes; decidedly I must have it out
with somebody. The weather was once more superb;
and in the garden beneath my window men were already
sweeping away the broken twigs and debris of the storm.
I say “already,” because it had not seemed
to me to be the Kings Port custom to remove debris,
or anything, with speed. I also had it in my
mind to perform at lunch Aunt Carola’s commission,
and learn if the family of La Heu were indeed of royal
descent through the Bombos. I intended to find
this out from the girl behind the counter, but the
course which our conversation took led me completely
to forget about it.
As soon as I entered the Exchange I planted myself
in front of the counter, in spite of the discouragement
which I too plainly perceived in her countenance;
the unfavorable impression which I had made upon her
at our last interview was still in force.
I plunged into it at once. “I have a confession
to make.”
“You do me surprising honor.”
“Oh, now, don’t begin like that!
I suppose you never told a lie.”
“I’m telling the truth now when I say
that I do not see why an entire stranger should confess
anything to me.”
“Oh, my goodness! Well, I told you a lie,
anyhow; a great, successful, deplorable lie.”
She opened her mouth under the shock of it, and I
recited to her unsparingly my deception; during this
recital her mouth gradually closed.
“Well, I declare, declare, declare!” she
slowly and deliciously breathed over the sum total;
and she considered me at length, silently, before her
words came again, like a soft soliloquy. “I
could never have believed it in one who”—here
gayety flashed in her eyes suddenly—“parts
his back hair so rigidly. Oh, I beg your pardon
for being personal!” And her gayety broke in
ripples. Some habitual instinct moved me to turn
to the looking-glass. “Useless!”
she cried, “you can’t see it in that.
But it’s perfectly splendid to-day.”
Nature has been kind to me in many ways—nay,
prodigal; it is not every man who can perceive the
humor in a jest of which he is himself the subject.
I laughed with her. “I trust that I am forgiven,”
I said.
“Oh, yes, you are forgiven! Come out, General,
and give the gentleman your right paw, and tell him
that he is forgiven—if only for the sake
of Daddy Ben.” With these latter words
she gave me a gracious nod of understanding.
They were all thanking me for the kettle-supporter!
She probably knew also the tale of John Mayrant, the
cards, and the bedside.
The curly dog came out, and went through his part
very graciously.
“I can guess his last name,” I remarked.
“General’s? How? Oh, you’ve
heard it! I don’t believe in you any more.”
