At the Exchange I opened the door upon a conversation which, in consequence, broke off abruptly; but this much I came in for:—­

“Nothing but the slightest bruise above his eye.  The other one is in bed.”

It was the severe lady who said this; I mean that lady who, among all the severe ones I had met, seemed capable of the highest exercise of this quality, although she had not exercised it in my presence.  She looked, in her veil and her black street dress, as aloof, and as coldly scornful of the present day, as she had seemed when sitting over her embroidery; but it was not of 1818, or even 1840, that she had been talking just now:  it was this morning that somebody was bruised, somebody was in bed.

The handsome lady acknowledged my salutation completely, but not encouragingly, and then, on the threshold, exchanged these parting sentences with the girl behind the counter:—­

“They will have to shake hands.  He was not very willing, but he listened to me.  Of course, the chastisement was right—­but it does not affect my opinion of his keeping on with the position.”

“No, indeed, Aunt Josephine!” the girl agreed.  “I wish he wouldn’t.  Did you say it was his right eye?”

“His left.”  Miss Josephine St. Michael inclined her head once more to me and went out of the Exchange.  I retired to my usual table, and the girl read in my manner, quite correctly, the feelings which I had not supposed I had allowed to be evident.  She said:—­

“Aunt Josephine always makes strangers think she’s displeased with them.”

I replied like the young ass which I constantly tell myself I have ceased to be:  “Oh, displeasure is as much notice as one is entitled to from Miss St. Michael.”

The girl laughed with her delightful sweet mockery.

“I declare, you’re huffed!  Now don’t tell me you’re not.  But you mustn’t be.  When you know her, you’ll know that that awful manner means Aunt Josephine is just being shy.  Why, even I’m not afraid of her George Washington glances any more!”

“Very well,” I laughed, “I’ll try to have your courage.”  Over my chocolate and sandwiches I sat in curiosity discreditable, but natural.  Who was in bed—­who would have to shake hands?  And why had they stopped talking when I came in?  Of course, I found myself hoping that John Mayrant had put the owner of the Hermana in bed at the slight cost of a bruise above his left eye.  I wondered if the cake was again countermanded, and I started upon that line.  “I think I’ll have to-day, if you please, another slice of that Lady Baltimore.”  And I made ready for another verbal skirmish.

“I’m so sorry!  It’s a little stale to-day.  You can have the last slice, if you wish.”

“Thank you, I will.”  She brought it.  “It’s not so very stale,” I said.  “How long since it has been made?”

“Oh, it’s the same you’ve been having.  You’re its only patron just now.”