"Weir is a man well worth cultivating; he has the strongest hand in all your uncle's affairs. He is firm, sane, reserved, unemotional, never in haste; and little escapes him." "Different sorts of men," said Whitaker, after the two had left them and taken a table at the other end of the room. "Totally different, but, I should say, equally dependable. Fine quality, both of them. But Weir is none of your easy-mannered ones, like the doctor; courtly conduct isn't taught on the decks of Yankee ships." "They are close friends, though, I suppose?" said Anthony. "No," replied Whitaker; "no. I think they admire each other in a practical way; but they are not at all intimate. Their being together to-night is, I think, because of you. Dr. King, I think, desires a place made for you in the counting-house." "I see," said Anthony. Active inroads had been made in the pasty; the tankards had run low and been refilled when Anthony, chancing to look up, saw Mademoiselle Lafargue and her father moving among the tables toward him. At once he pushed back his chair and arose. His eyes met hers, but she averted her face and passed him by without a word or sign. A waiter opened a door for them, which apparently led into a smaller room; and then it closed, leaving Anthony standing, stunned. "That was unkind!" exclaimed Whitaker. "Most devilishly unkind. She hasn't the excuse that she didn't see you; she looked full at you." Anthony sat down, a frown upon his face. "I hadn't expected that," said he. "But, then," with a laugh, "under the circumstances, what reason had I to expect anything." Whitaker discoursed philosophically upon the ways of women--upon the vagaries of young ones in particular. Anthony endured it silently; then, so it happened, the door through which the girl and her father had passed was opened once more, this time widely. Anthony saw a group of people--men and women; there was a table loaded with food and drink, and Mademoiselle Lafargue was talking earnestly with a handsome young man whose dress showed him to be a person of fashion. "Well, dash me!" exclaimed Whitaker. "There's Bob Tarrant!" The girl's attitude seemed one of pleading; she was asking something of Tarrant, and he seemed reassuring her with courtly grace. And, as Anthony watched, the man turned to another, him who stood holding the door open, and nodded. The man at the door laughed; Anthony shot him a look, and recognized the big young man who had thrown the saddle-bags from the deck of the New York packet. Then the door slammed shut, and the young man, a quizzical look upon his face, strode through the public room. He stopped at the table at which sat Anthony with Whitaker. "Good evening," said he to Anthony, his even teeth gleaming good-naturedly. "Well met, sir. I'd thought to see you again, but I did not expect it to be under conditions like these."