And these are not the only changes that the coming of spring has wrought.  What has been going on deep down in the tender, expectant hearts of root and bulb, eager for expression, had been at work in Harry’s own temperament.  The sunshine of St. George’s companionship has already had its effect; the boy is thawing out; his shrinking shyness, born of his recent trouble, is disappearing like a morning frost.  He is again seen at the club, going first under St. George’s lee and then on his own personal footing.

The Chesapeake, so St. George had urged upon him, was the centre of news—­the headquarters, really, of the town, where not only the current happenings and gossip of Kennedy Square were discussed, but that of the country at large.  While the bald-heads, of course, would be canvassing the news from Mexico, which was just beginning to have an ugly look, or having it out, hammer and tongs, over the defeat of Henry Clay, to which some rabid politicians had never become reconciled, the younger gentry—­men of Harry’s own tastes—­would be deploring the poor showing the ducks were making, owing to the up-river freshets which had spoiled the wild celery; or recounting the doings at Mrs. Cheston’s last ball; or the terrapin supper at Mr. Kennedy’s, the famous writer; or perhaps bemoaning the calamity which had befallen some fellow member who had just found seven bottles out of ten of his most precious port corked and worthless.  But whatever the topics, or whoever took sides in their discussion, none of it, so St. George argued, could fail to interest a young fellow just entering upon the wider life of a man of the world, and one, of all others, who needed constant companionship.  Then again, by showing himself frequently within its walls, Harry would become better known and better liked.

That he was ineligible for membership, being years too young, and that his continued presence, even as a guest, was against the rules, did not count in his case, or if it did count, no member, in view of what the lad had suffered, was willing to raise the question.  Indeed, St. George, in first introducing him, had referred to “my friend, Mr. Rutter,” as an “out of town guest,” laughing as he did so, everybody laughing in return, and so it had gone at that.

At first Harry had dreaded meeting his father’s and his uncle’s friends, most of whom, he fancied, might be disposed to judge him too harshly.  But St. George had shut his ears to every objection, insisting that the club was a place where a man could be as independent as he pleased, and that as his guest he would be entitled to every consideration.