"A heavenly person," Mrs. Ravenel answered.
"Man, I suppose," Francis laughed.
Mrs. Ravenel nodded assent and repeated: "Heavenly! An Irishman; with black hair, very black brows, pale like a Spaniard, about thirty—"
"
Your own age," Frank interrupted, with a complimentary gesture.
—"who rides like a trooper, drinks half a glass of whiskey at a gulp, and is the greatest liar I can imagine."
"It's enlightening to discover an adored parent's idea of a heavenly person," Francis said, with an amused smile.
"He sends me flowers and writes me poetry. We exchange," she explained, and there came to her eyes a delightfully critical appreciation of her own doings.
"The heavenly person has—I suppose—a name?" Frank suggested.
"Dermott McDermott."