He was silent, however, while Grey exclaimed, "Fear, sir--fear?
You surely cannot mean to say--to imply that the election of a black
Republican would be desirable." He laid down his fork and was about to
become untimely eloquent--Rivers smiled--watching the Squire and his
wife, as Penhallow said:
"Pardon me, Grey, but I cannot have my best mutton neglected."
"Oh, yes--yes--but a word--a word. Elect Fremont--and we secede. Elect
Buchanan--and the Union is safe. There, sir, you have it in a nutshell."
"Ah, my dear Grey," said Penhallow, "this is rather of the nature of a
threat--never a very digestible thing--for me, at least--and I am not
very convincible. We will discuss it over our wine or a cigar." He turned
to his wife, "Any news of Leila, Ann?"
"Yes, I had a letter to-day," she returned, somewhat relieved. "She seems
to be better satisfied."
Grey accepted the interrupting hint and fell to critical talk of the
Squire's horses. After the wine Penhallow carried off his guest to the
library, and avoiding politics with difficulty was unutterably bored by
the little gentleman's reminiscent nothings about himself, his crops,
tobacco, wines, his habits of life, what agreed with him and what did
not. At last, with some final whisky, Mr. Grey went to bed.
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