“Aw! Gwanby, I’m vewy glad to see you,” replied Sir Comeguys Ambient, generally called briefly Sir Com. “Yes, I’ve begun my jowney wound the wowuld. It’s lownger than I thought.” “You’ve had some pleasant company, anyway,” said the major, examining discreetly two young ladies who stood near the rail, and who, seemingly, found much to interest them in the shoreward view. “Yes; doosed handsome gerwuls,” agreed Sir Com, “and vewy agweeable, but know too much.” “Not exactly in your line then, eh?” “I’m weelly a little afwaid of them,” admitted the valiant youth. “But the dark one is a wegular stunner for eyes and hair. The fair one is Miss Clara Waddie. The bwunette is her friend, Diana,” and the pinkling’s cheeks became all suffused with his ingenuous heart’s blood. “Ah,” said Granby, observing the suffusion, “so that goddess--and she is a goddess--has transfixed you! Beware how you trifle with her; these American ladies do not hesitate to call a man out. Your Diana is divine, but your Clara is angelic. Waddy? I have a friend of that name. I’m going now to meet him in Boston.” In the course of the day, Major Granby, who had a soldier-like impetuosity in assaulting new opportunities, was presented to Waddie _père_ and by him to the ladies. Mr. Waddie of New York was a tall, slender gentleman, clean-shaven and high-cravatted. A bit of white collar on each side narrowed his range of chin movement. Dignity required that his head should not gyrate, hence sidelong glances were only effected by a painful twist of his eyes. He wore a blue frock, buttoned, and remarkably perfect boots. His manner was a little stiff, but entirely well-bred, and had a certain careful courtesy very attractive. Altogether, you would say, a man of limited, but not narrow mind, gentle and amiable. His passion was genealogy, and if he was ever querulous, it was when inevitable antiquaries connected him with the first Waddy, well known to all American pedigrees, cook of the _Mayflower_ and victim of Miles Standish. “Do I look,” he would say, “like the son of a sea-cook, even in the sixth generation?” And, indeed, he did not resemble a descendant of the caboose, but rather a marquis of the Émigration, such as we behold him at the Théâtre Français. This somewhat faded _élégant_ had another passion: it was for his lovely daughter; nor was he the only man thus affected.