“Yes, I think he’s a genius, and I’m determined that he shall have a
chance. I suppose we’ve got a job on our hands; but I’m not sorry. I’ll
introduce him into society, and if he needs money he shall have it.
What does God give us money for, Mr. Ferris, but to help our
fellow-creatures?”
So miserable, as he was, from head to foot, that it seemed impossible
he could endure more, Ferris could not forbear laughing at this burst of
piety.
“What are you laughing at?” asked Mrs. Vervain, who had cheerfully
joined him. “Something I’ve been saying. Well, you won’t have me to
laugh at much longer. I do wonder whom you’ll have next.”
Ferris’s merriment died away in something like a groan, and when Mrs.
Vervain again spoke, it was in a tone of sudden querulousness. “I
_wish_ Florida would come! She went to bolt the land-gate after Don
Ippolito,--I wanted her to,--but she ought to have been back long ago.
It’s odd you didn’t meet them, coming in. She must be in the garden
somewhere; I suppose she’s sorry to be leaving it. But I need her. Would
you be so very kind, Mr. Ferris, as to go and ask her to come to me?”
Ferris rose heavily from the chair in which he seemed to have grown ten
years older. He had hardly heard anything that he did not know already,
but the clear vision of the affair with which he had come to the
Vervains was hopelessly confused and darkened. He could make nothing of
any phase of it. He did not know whether he cared now to see Florida
or not. He mechanically obeyed Mrs. Vervain, and stepping out upon the
terrace, slowly descended the stairway.
The moon was shining brightly into the garden.