"Oh, you mean Vaughn. He's no South American. He hails from Virginia."
"Thought he said he was a Southerner. May I trouble you for the mustard?"
"Did the Daughter of the Revolution go along?" asked the captain.
"Beg pardon?"
"Mrs. Weston. She's a D.A.R. She has told me so five times; that's how I know."
"Really, why was she chosen to be the Daughter of the Regiment?"
"The Revolution, not the regiment. You remember that little skirmish that took place in '75?"
Percival considered this thrust beneath his notice. His simmering antagonism for the captain was nearing the boiling-point.
"I say," he said, "will you kindly arrange for a bit of air to enter this room? It's ghastly, perfectly ghastly."
"Sure," said the captain, dexterously mixing a salad of alligator pears. "Ah Foo, open some of those ports and let in the coal-dust. Have some of this tropical mess?"