But after he had closed the door he stood and stroked his palm slowly over
his temple, smoothing down his fair hair--a gesture that was a part of his
individuality; and his smile, while it was not at all diffident, was
deprecatory. He began to roll down the sleeves of his shirt.

There was the repressed humor of his race in the glint in his eyes; he
drawled a bit when he spoke, covering thus the Scotch hitch-and-go-on in
the natural accent that had come down to him from his ancestors.

"I saw your car arrive, Senator Corson, and I broke the sprinting record."

"And the mill rule!" muttered Mac Tavish.

"It's only an informal call, Stewart," explained the Senator, amiably,
walking toward the rail.

"And you have caught me in informal rig, sir!" He pulled his coat and
waistcoat from the hooks and added, while he tugged the garments on, "So
I'll say, informally, I'm precious glad to see old neighbors home again
and to know the Corson mansion is opened, if only for a little while."

"Lana came down with the servants a few days ago. I couldn't get here till
last evening. I have some friends with me, Stewart, who have come along in
the car to join me in paying our respects to the mayor of Marion."

Morrison threw up the bar of the rail and stepped through. He clutched the
hand of the Senator in his big, cordial grip. "And now, being out in the
mayor's office, I'll extend formal welcome in the name of the city, sir."

He looked past the father toward the daughter.