For a while there was an awkward pause, during which I felt very much embarrassed, as having been the innocent cause of the disturbance.
Mrs. M. soon resumed her smile, and said:
“Mr. Marshman thinks he is on the floor of the House whenever he gets to talking, and forgets his surroundings.”
“Well, my dear,” he said, pouring out a glass of brandy, “excuse my absent-mindedness. Come, Mr. Debait, since they will not let us finish our discussion, we will have to join the young folks.”
Mrs. Marshman gave him a sign to notice me, and he said, in a patronizing, Congressional way:
“What are the times in North Carolina, Mr. Smith? Whom will your people support in the next Presidential election?”
I was informing him that, as a student, I had not taken much interest in politics, when Mrs. M. cut in:
“Mr. Marshman, you ought to observe Mr. Smith very closely. He is the only one who ever really flirted with me.”
“Is he?” returned Mr. Marshman, trying to keep his good humor, though evidently disliking me. “What did I do with your heart?”