Dere ain't 'nough to eat fo' mo'n two.
When dem white-livered, no-count, onery gemmens dat stole Marse George's money git in de chain-gang, whar dey b'longs, den may be we'll hab sumpin' to go to market on, but dat ain't yit; an' don't ye tell Marse George I tol' yer or I'll ha'nt ye like dat witch I done heared 'bout down to Wesley--ha'nt ye so ye'll think de debble's got ye." To his master, his only explanation was that Jemima had gone to look after her sister, who had been taken "wid a mis'ry in her back." If St.George knew anything of the common talk going on around him no one was ever the wiser.

He continued the even tenor of his life, visiting and receiving his friends, entertaining his friends in a simple and inexpensive way: Once Poe had spent an evening with him, when he made a manly, straightforward apology for his conduct the night of the dinner, and on another occasion Mr.Kennedy had made an especial point of missing a train to Washington to have an hour's chat with him.

In the afternoons he would have a rubber of whist with the archdeacon who lived across the Square--a broad-minded ecclesiastic, who believed in relaxation, although, of course, he was never seen at the club; or he might drop into the Chesapeake for a talk with Richard or sit beside him in his curious laboratory at the rear of his house where he worked out many of the problems that absorbed his mind and inspired his hopes.

At night, however late or early--whenever he reached home--there was always a romp with his dogs.

This last he rarely omitted.