Stephen thought it was.  But Mr. Cluyme was evidently expecting no answer.

“Well,” said he, “what I was going to say was that we heard you were in town; ‘Friends of Samuel Atterbury, my dear,’ I said to my wife.  We are neighbors, Mr. Brace.  You must know the girls.  You must come to supper.  We live very plainly, sir, very simply.  I am afraid that you will miss the luxury of the East, and some of the refinement, Stephen.  I hope I may call you so, my boy.  We have a few cultured citizens, Stephen, but all are not so.  I miss the atmosphere.  I seemed to live again when I got to Boston.  But business, sir,—­the making of money is a sordid occupation.  You will come to supper?”

“I scarcely think that my mother will go out,” said Stephen.

“Oh, be friends!  It will cheer her.  Not a dinner-party, my boy, only a plain, comfortable meal, with plenty to eat.  Of course she will.  Of course she will.  Not a Boston social function, you understand.  Boston, Stephen, I have always looked upon as the centre of the universe.  Our universe, I mean.  America for Americans is a motto of mine.  Oh, no,” he added quickly, “I don’t mean a Know Nothing.  Religious freedom, my boy, is part of our great Constitution.  By the way, Stephen—­Atterbury always had such a respect for your father’s opinions—­”

“My father was not an Abolitionist, sir,” said Stephen, smiling.

“Quite right, quite right,” said Mr. Cluyme.

“But I am not sure, since I have come here, that I have not some sympathy and respect for the Abolitionists.”

Mr. Cluyme gave a perceptible start.  He glanced at the heavy hangings on the windows and then out of the open door into the hall.  For a space his wife’s chatter to Mrs. Brace, on Boston fashions, filled the room.

“My dear Stephen,” said the gentleman, dropping his voice, “that is all very well in Boston.  But take a little advice from one who is old enough to counsel you.  You are young, and you must learn to temper yourself to the tone of the place which you have made your home.  St. Louis is full of excellent people, but they are not precisely Abolitionists.  We are gathering, it is true, a small party who are for gradual emancipation.  But our New England population here is small yet compared to the Southerners.  And they are very violent, sir.”

Stephen could not resist saying, “Judge Whipple does not seem to have tempered himself, sir.”

“Silas Whipple is a fanatic, sir,” cried Mr. Cluyme.

“His hand is against every man’s.  He denounces Douglas on the slightest excuse, and would go to Washington when Congress opens to fight with Stephens and Toombs and Davis.  But what good does it do him?  He might have been in the Senate, or on the Supreme Bench, had he not stirred up so much hatred.  And yet I can’t help liking Whipple.  Do you know him?”

A resounding ring of the door-bell cut off Stephen’s reply, and Mrs. Cluyme’s small talk to Mrs. Brice.  In the hall rumbled a familiar voice, and in stalked none other than Judge Whipple himself.  Without noticing the other occupants of the parlor he strode up to Mrs. Brice, looked at her for an instant from under the grizzled brows, and held out his large hand.