Kate had given much thought to their second meeting. She had so much regretted her thoughtless laugh before; as well as being hurtful, it was also rude. It had always been part of her upbringing that a mistake, however regrettable, can usually be corrected. She was determined, therefore, both to make a better impression this time, and to make amends. For an hour before coming, she had carefully prepared herself. She’d rehearsed subjects of conversation that she thought he might like; she had thought hard about anything she could say to overcome the bad impression she must have made; and she had put on a simple dress with a small brown-and-white check that suited her very well.

For to her own surprise, she found that young John Master’s lack of learning hardly troubled her at all. It was not just that he looked like a Greek god—though that, she confessed to herself with some amusement, was a factor. There was something else about him, an inner strength and honesty she thought she divined, and an intelligence too—different from her father’s, but not to be scorned. And, strangely touching and appealing in a way that was new to her, was another realisation: the Greek god was vulnerable.

So from the moment they arrived, she had been waiting for him to appear. She could see that the boy’s father was looking out for him too, with a hint of perplexity: and when they sat down to sup, she ventured to ask her host if his son would be joining them.

“He’ll be along, Miss Kate,” the merchant answered, with a look of slight embarrassment. “I can’t think where the boy’s got to.”

But the fish was removed, and the meat too, and still he did not come. And perhaps it was the hope of seeing him again, as much as politeness, that made her say to her host, in her father’s hearing, that she hoped he and his family would all come to visit them in Boston before long.

It was not often that her father lost control of his manners. The look of horror that crossed his face lasted only a second. But it was visible to all. Though he corrected himself quickly, it was not quite in time.

“Indeed!” he cried warmly. “You must dine with us. Dine with us, when you come to Boston.”

“How kind,” said his New York cousin, a little drily.

“We shall await—” Eliot hastened to say. But what he would await was not revealed. For at this moment, the door was thrown open, and young John Master lurched into the room.

He was not a pretty sight. If his shirt had been as white as his face, it might have been better. But it was filthy. His hair was tousled. His eyes were glazed as he stared round the room, trying to focus. He swayed unsteadily. He looked sodden.