“By God, sir …” his father broke out.

“Good evening.” He did not seem to have heard his father. “Am I late?” Even from the doorway, the smell of stale beer on his breath and on his shirt was now filling the room.

“Out! Leave us, sir,” the merchant shouted. But John remained oblivious.

“Ah.” His eyes now rested on Kate, who, since he was behind her, had turned around to look at him. “Miss Kate.” He nodded to himself. “My cousin. The lovely, I say the lovely, Miss Kate.”

“Sir?” she replied, scarcely knowing what it would be best to say. But she needn’t have worried, for her cousin had acquired a momentum of his own. He took a step forward, seemed about to topple, righted himself, and then cannoned into the back of her chair, against which he steadied himself for a moment as he lolled over her shoulder.

“What a pretty dress, cousin,” he cried. “You are beautiful tonight. You are always beautiful,” he cried out. “My beautiful cousin Kate. I kiss your hand.” And leaning over the back of her chair, he reached his hand down over her shoulder, attempting to take her hand in his. And then threw up.

He threw up over her hair, over her shoulder, over her arm, and all over her brown-and-white check dress.

He was still throwing up a moment later, as his enraged father dragged him from the room, leaving behind a scene of some confusion.

It was a bright, clear August morning, somewhat cooler than the days before, as the small carriage carrying Kate and her father rolled up the Boston road. Behind them the sound of cannon boomed out. The people of New York, whether their governor liked it or not, were giving a formal salute to Andrew Hamilton as he set out, in the other direction, for Philadelphia.

“Ha,” said her father, with satisfaction. “A salute deserved. It has been a visit worth making, Kate, despite the unfortunate incident last night. I am truly sorry, my child, that you should have suffered such a thing.”

“I did not mind, Father,” she answered. “I have known my brother and sisters to be sick in the past.”

“Not like that,” he answered firmly.

“He is young, Father. I think he is shy.”

“Pah,” said her father.

“I did not dislike him,” she said. “In fact—”

“There is no reason,” said her father decidedly, “for us to encounter those people any more.”

And since Boston was far away, and her father in control of her fate, she knew that she would never, in all her life, see her cousin John again.