Mrs. Whitney was not so sanguine, but she concealed it.  She appreciated what was troubling Hiram.  While she encouraged her own son, her Ross, to be a “gentleman,” she had enough of the American left to see the flaws in that new ideal of hers—­when looking at another woman’s son.  And the superciliousness which delighted her in Ross, irritated her in Arthur; for, in him, it seemed a sneering reflection upon the humble and toilsome beginnings of Charles and herself.  She believed—­not without reason—­that, under Ross’s glossy veneer of gentleman, there was a shrewd and calculating nature; it, she thought, would not permit the gentleman to make mess of those matters, which, coarse and sordid though they were, still must be looked after sharply if the gentleman was to be kept going.  But she was, not unnaturally, completely taken in by Arthur’s similar game, the more easily as Arthur put into it an intensity of energy which Ross had not.  She therefore thought Arthur as unpractical as he so fashionably professed, thought he accepted without reservation “our set’s” pretenses of aristocracy for appearance’s sake.  “Of course, your father’ll come round,” she said, friendly but not cordial.  “All that’s necessary is that you and Adelaide use a little tact.”

And she was in her victoria and away, a very grand-looking lady, indeed, with two in spick and span summer livery on the box, with her exquisite white and gold sunshade, a huge sapphire in the end of the handle, a string of diamonds worth a small fortune round her neck, a gold bag, studded with diamonds, in her lap, and her superb figure clad in a close-fitting white cloth dress.  In the gates she swept past Torrey and his two clerks accompanying him as witnesses.  She understood; her face was anything but an index to her thoughts as she bowed and smiled graciously in response to the old judge’s salutation.

* * * * *

Torrey read the will to Hiram slowly, pausing after each paragraph for sign of approval or criticism.  But Hiram gave no more indication of his thought, by word or expression or motion, than if he had been a seated statue.  The reading came to an end, but neither man spoke.  The choir of birds, assembled in the great trees round the house, flooded the room with their evening melody.  At last, Hiram said:  “Please move that table in front of me.”

Torrey put the table before him, laid the will upon it ready for the signing.

Hiram took a pen; Torrey went to the door and brought in the two clerks waiting in the hall.  The three men stood watching while Hiram’s eyes slowly read each word of the will.  He dipped the pen and, with a hand that trembled in spite of all his obvious efforts to steady it, wrote his name on the line to which Torrey silently pointed.  The clerks signed as witnesses.

“Thank you,” said Hiram.  “You had better take it with you, judge.”

“Very well,” said Torrey, tears in his eyes, a quaver in his voice.