As she speaks, she dimples, and blushes, and beams all over her pretty face as she recalls that day's past glories.
"The Sixty-second?" says Marcia. "I recollect. A very second-rate regiment I thought it. There was a Captain Milburd in it, I remember."
"That was John's friend," says Molly, promptly; "he was so kind to me that day. Did you like him?"
"Like him! A man all broad plaid and red tie. No, I certainly did not like him."
"His tie!" says Molly, laughing gayly at the vision she has conjured up,—"it certainly was red. As red as that rose," pointing to a blood-colored flower in the centre of a huge china bowl of priceless cost, that ornaments the middle of the table, and round which, being opposite to him, she has to peer to catch a glimpse of Philip. "It was the reddest thing I ever saw, except his complexion. But I forgave him, he was so good-natured."
"Does good-nature make up for everything?" asks Philip, dodging the bowl in his turn to meet her eyes.
"For most things. Grandpapa," pointing to a family portrait over the chimney-piece that has attracted her attention ever since her entrance, "whose is that picture?"
"Your grandmother's. It is like you, but," says the old man with his usual gracefulness, "it is ten times handsomer."
"Very like you," thinks the young man, gazing with ever increasing admiration at the exquisite tints and shades and changes in the living face before him, "only you are ten thousand times more beautiful!"
Slowly, and with much unnecessary delay, the dinner drags to an end, only to be followed by a still slower hour in the drawing-room.