“It's Virginia, I suppose,” he suggested.
The Major laughed until his spectacles clouded.
“Virginia!” he gasped, wiping the glasses upon his white silk handkerchief. “Listen to the boy, Molly, he believes every last one of us—myself to boot, I reckon—to be in love with Miss Virginia.”
“If he does, he believes as many men have done before him,” interposed Mrs. Lightfoot, with a homely philosophy.
“Well, isn't it Virginia?” asked Dan.
“I tell you frankly,” pursued the Major, in a confidential voice, “that if you want a rival with Virginia, you'll be apt to find a stout one in Jack Morson. He was back a week ago, and he's a fine fellow—a first-rate fellow. I declare, he came over here one evening and I couldn't begin a single quotation from Horace that he didn't know the end of it. On my word, he's not only a fine fellow, but a cultured gentleman. You may remember, sir, that I have always maintained that the two most refining influences upon the manners were to be found in the society of ladies and a knowledge of the Latin language.”
Dan gave the yarn an impatient jerk. “Tell me, grandma,” he besought her.
As was her custom, the old lady came quickly to the point and appeared to transfix the question with the end of her knitting-needle. “I really think that it is Betty, my child,” she answered calmly.
“What does he mean by falling in love with Betty?” demanded Dan, while he rose to his feet, and the ball of yarn fell upon the floor.
“Don't ask me what he means, sir,” protested the Major. “If a man in love has any meaning in him, it takes a man in love to find it out. Maybe you'll be better at it than I am; but I give it up—I give it up.”