Mr. Somers was bolstered up in bed, in a flowered dressing gown, with a bottle of colchicum and a pile of Congressional reports on a stand beside him.  His urbanity was extreme; it was evident that the gout was not allowed to interfere with his deportment, though the joints of his hands were twisted and knotty.  He expatiated upon Ben’s long ungratified wish for a visit from me, and thanked father for complying with it.  He mentioned the memento of the miniature, and gave every particular of Locke Morgeson’s early marriage, explaining the exact shade of consanguinity—­a faint one.  I glanced at Mrs. Somers, who sat remote, in the act of inspecting me, with an eye askance, which I afterward found was her mode of looking at those whom she doubted or disliked; it changed its expression, as it met mine, into one of haughty wonder, that said there could be no tie of blood between us.  She irritated and embarrassed me.  I tried to think of something to say, and uttered a few words, which were uncommonly trivial and awkward.  Mr. Somers touched on politics.  The door opened, and Ben’s brother entered, with downcast eyes.  Advancing to the footboard of the bed, he leaned his chin on its edge, looked at his father, and in a remarkably clear, ringing voice, said: 

“The check.”

Mr. Somers coughed behind his hand.  “To-morrow will do, Desmond.”

“To-day will do.”

“Desmond,” said Ben in a low voice, “you do not see Mr. Morgeson and Miss Morgeson.  My brother, Cassandra.”

“Beg pardon, good-morning”; and he pulled off his hat with an air of grace which became him, though it was very indifferent.  Mrs. Somers in a soft voice said:  “Ring, Des, dear, will you?” He warned her with a satirical smile, and gave such a pull at the bell-rope that it came down.  Her florid face flushed a deeper red, but he had gone.  Father looked at his watch, and got up with alacrity.

“You are to dine with us, at least, Mr. Morgeson.”

“I must return to Boston on account of my daughter, who is there alone.”

“Have you been remiss, Ben,” said his father affectionately, “in not bringing her also?”

“She would not come, of course, father.”

A tall, black-haired girl of twenty-five rushed in.

“Why, Ben,” she said, “you were not expected.  And this is Miss Morgeson,” shaking hands with me.  “You will spend a month, won’t you?” She put her chin in her hand, and scanned me with a cool deliberateness.  “Pa, do you think she is like Caroline Bingham?”

“Yes, so she is; but fairer.  She is a great belle,” nodding to me.

“Do you really think she looks like her, Somers?” said Mrs. Somers, in a tone of denial.

“Certainly, but handsomer,” Adelaide replied for him, without looking at her mother.

“Would you like to go to your room?” she asked.  “What a pretty dress this is!” taking hold of the sleeve, her chin in her hand still.  “We will have some walks; Belem is nice for walking.  Pa, how do you feel now?”