He was a stiff, sober, respectable man,--a man who, except at elections--he was a great politician--mixed in none of the revels of his more boisterous townsmen.

The sounds, the spot, were ungenial to him.

He paused, and the colour of shame rose to his brow.

He was ashamed to be there--ashamed to meet the desolate and, as he believed, erring sister.
A pretty maidservant, heated and flushed with orders and compliments, crossed his path with a tray full of glasses.
"There's a lady come by the Telegraph ?" "Yes, sir, upstairs, No.

2, Mr.Morton." Mr.Morton! He shrank at the sound of his own name.
"My wife's right," he muttered.