In a few moments he returned, picking up the thread of his discourse with: “Where was I? Oh, yes, at Lord Wingfall’s son’s. Well, that’s about all. We are on our way now to spend a few days with--” Here he glanced at the curate and the mill-owner, who were absorbing every word that fell from his lips. “Some of the gentry in the next county--can’t think of their names--friends of Sam.” It became evident now that neither Mac nor Lonnegan intended introducing him to either of the Englishmen. The barmaid pushed a second tray over the counter, and Tommy drew up a chair and waved us into three others. “Sam is so helpless, you know,” he chatted on. “I can’t leave him, really, for an hour. Depends on me for everything. Funny, isn’t it, that a man worth--well, anywhere from forty to fifty millions of dollars, and made it all himself--should be that way? But it’s a fact. Very simple man, too, in his tastes, when you know him. Mrs. Lambert and Rosie” (Mac stole a look at Lonnegan at the familiar use of the last name, but Tommy flowed on) “got tired of the _Cynthia_--she’s a hundred and ninety feet over all, sixteen knots, and cost a quarter of a million--and wanted Sam to get something bigger. But the old man held out; wanted to know what I thought of it, and, of course, I had to say she was all right, and that settled it. Just the same way with that new house on the Avenue--you know it, Mr. Lonnegan--after he’d spent one hundred and fifty thousand dollars decorating the music-room--that’s the one facing the Avenue--she thought she’d change it to Louis-Seize. Of course Sam didn’t care for the money, but it was the dirt and plaster and discomfort of it all. By the way, after dinner, suppose you and Mr. Lonnegan, and you, too”--this to me--“come in and have a cigar with Sam. We’ve got some good Reina Victorias especially made for him--glad to have you know him.” Mac gazed out of the open door and shut his teeth tight. Lonnegan looked down into the custard-pie face of the speaker, but made no reply. Tommy laid a coin on the counter, shot out his cuffs, said: “See you later,” and sauntered out. No! There were no buds or blossoms--nothing of any kind, for that matter--out of Tommy’s reach! The mill-owner rose to his feet, straightened his square shoulders, made a movement as if to speak, altered his mind, shook Mac’s hand warmly, and with a bow to the tap-room, and a special nod to the barmaid, mounted his horse and rode off. The curate looked up and smiled, his gaze riveted on Mac. “One of your American gentlemen, sir?” he asked. The tone was most respectful--not a trace of sarcasm, not a line visible about the corners of his mouth; only the gray eyes twinkled. “No,” answered Mac grimly; “_a gentleman’s gentleman_.” The next morning at sunrise Mac burst into our room roaring with laughter, slapping his pajama-incased knee with his fat hand, the tears streaming from his eyes.