It had been proper of his cousin to ask him and his daughter to dinner that day, and useful that, while Kate rested at their lodgings, Dirk was showing him round the town. The merchant was certainly well informed; and clearly proud of his city. Having walked up Broadway and admired Trinity Church, they had taken the road north as it followed the line of the ancient Indian track, until they were nearing the old pond.

“The land to the east was all swamp a couple of years ago,” the merchant told him. “But my friend Roosevelt bought it, and look at it now.” The area had been drained and laid out as handsome streets.

Such development was impressive, the lawyer remarked, when he’d heard how New York’s trade had been suffering in recent years.

“Trade is bad at present,” the merchant acknowledged. “The sugar planters in the West Indies were too greedy and overproduced. Many have gone under, so that our own trade, which lies chiefly in supplying them, has been badly hit. Then those damn fellows in Philadelphia are supplying flour at lower prices than we can.” He shook his head. “Not good.”

Since New York had been stealing away Boston’s trade for half a century, the Bostonian could not entirely suppress a smile at New York’s present discomfort.

“You still do well, though?” he asked.

“I’m a general trader,” said his cousin. “The slave trade’s still good.”

Eliot Master was silent.

On their way back, they passed by Mill Street, and Dirk Master indicated a building there.

“That’s the synagogue,” he said, easily. “Not a bad building. They have two communities, you know: the Sephardics, who came here first from Brazil—rather gentlemanly; and the Ashkenazim, Germans—not gentlemen, but more of them. So they elect an Ashkenazi as president of the congregation, but the services are Sephardic. God knows if the Germans understand them. Funny really, don’t you think?”

“I do not think a man’s religion is a laughing matter,” said the lawyer, quietly.

“No. Of course. Wasn’t quite what I meant.”

It might not have been. But the Boston man thought he detected in the merchant’s manner a hint of moral carelessness—confirmation that he’d been right to have reservations about that silk vest.

They were about to part, when Dirk Master suddenly stopped, and pointed.

“There he is,” he cried. And seeing Eliot look puzzled, he smiled. “That young devil,” he explained, “is my son.”

The lawyer stared in horror.