Then, as his grandson ran upstairs to dress, he followed him as far as Mrs. Lightfoot's chamber, and informed her with a touch of pomposity: “That it was Virginia, not Betty, after all. But we'll make the best of it, my dear,” he added cheerfully. “Either of the Ambler girls is a jewel of priceless value.”
The little old lady received this flower of speech with more than ordinary unconcern.
“Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Lightfoot, that the boy has begun already?” she demanded, in amazement.
“He doesn't say so,” replied the Major, with a chuckle; “but I see what he means—I see what he means. Why, he told me he wished I could have seen her to-day in her red dress—and, bless my soul, I wish I could, ma'am.”
“I don't see what good it would do you,” returned his wife, coolly. “But did he have the face to tell you he was in love with the girl, Mr. Lightfoot?”
“Have the face?” repeated the Major, testily. “Pray, why shouldn't he have the face, ma'am? Whom should he tell, I'd like to know, before he tells his grandfather?” and with a final “pooh, pooh!” he returned angrily to his library and to the Richmond Whig, a paper he breathlessly read and mightily abused.
Dan, meanwhile, upstairs in his room with Champe, was busily sorting his collection of neckwear.
“Look here, Champe, I'll give you all these red ties, if you want them,” he generously concluded. “I believe, after all, I'll take to wearing white or black ones again.”
“What?” asked Champe, in astonishment, turning on his heel. “Have the skies fallen, or does Beau Montjoy forsake the fashions?”
“Confound the fashions!” retorted Dan, impatiently. “I don't care a jot for the fashions. You may have all these, if you choose,” and he tossed the neckties upon the bed.