"And it's beautiful!" cried Baynell, responsively. "And so are you!"
Mrs. Gwynn glanced down at her reprovingly and was out of countenance for a moment.
"How odious it is to give to colors the names of battles," she said,—"Magenta and Solferino!"
"This is a beautiful color, though," said Baynell.
"But the name gives such an ensanguined suggestion," she objected.
Her eye critically scanned the three "ladies" in their short white mull dresses and magenta sashes, each with a bow of black velvet in her hair, as they led Captain Baynell into the room, and it did not occur to her till too late to canvass the acceptability of the presence of the Yankee officer to the ladies of the vicinity, assembling in this choice symposium, who had some of them the cruel associations of death itself with the very sight of the uniform.
Whether it were good breeding, or the magnanimity that exempts the unit from the responsibility of the multitude, or a realization that Judge Roscoe's guest, be he whom he might, was entitled to the consideration of all in the Roscoe house, there was no demonstration of even the slightest antagonism. The usual civility of salutation in acknowledging the introduction served to withhold from Captain Baynell himself the fact that he could hardly hope to be persona grata; and ensconced in an arm-chair at the window overlooking the lovely landscape, he found a certain amusement and entertainment in watching the zealous industry of the little Roscoe "ladies," who were very competent lint-pickers and boasted some prodigies of performance. A large old linen crumb-cloth, laundered for the occasion, had been spread in the corner between the rear and side windows of the back parlor, so that the flying lint should not bespeck the velvet carpet, or an overturned basket work injury, and here in their three little chairs they sat and competed with each other, appealing to Captain Baynell to time them by his watch.
Now and then their comments, after the manner of their age, were keenly malapropos and occasioned a sense of embarrassment.
"Don't you reckon Ac'obat is homesick by this time, Captain?" demanded Adelaide.
"Look out of the window, Captain—you can see the grating to the wine-cellar where he could put his nose out to take the air," said Geraldine.