and
Mrs. Tracy. Unconsciously he began to imitate them, bowing when they
bowed, and saying softly to himself:
'Oh, how do you do? Good evening. Happy to see you. Pleasant to-night.
Walk in. Ye-as!'
This was the monosyllable with which he finished every sentence, and was
the affirmation to the thought in his mind that he, too, would some day
go down those stairs and into those parlors as a guest, while some other
boy in the upper hall bade the ladies go this way and the gentlemen
that.
It was after nine when Mr. and Mrs. St. Claire arrived, with Squire
Harrington, from Collingwood. Harold had been looking for them, anxious
to see the crimson satin trimmed with ermine, of which Dick had told
him. Many of the guests he had mentally criticised unsparingly, but Mrs.
St. Claire, he knew, was genuine, and his face beamed, when in passing
him, she smiled upon him with her sweet, gracious manner, and said,
pleasantly:
'Good evening, Harold. I knew you were to be here. Dick told me, and he
wanted to come and assist you, but I thought he'd better stay home with
Nina.'
Up to this time no one had spoken to Harold, and he had spoken to no one
except to tell them where to go, but had, as far as possible, followed
Mrs. Tracy's injunction to be a machine.
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