"I thought you were a diffident fellow, Ben," remarked the great man, as I took my seat again by his side; "but I don't believe there's another man in Richmond that would make such a spectacle of himself."
"I forget myself when I'm worked up," I answered, "and I forget that anybody is looking."
"Well, somebody was," he replied slyly. "You didn't see Miss Matoaca Bland pass you in a carriage as you were pushing that wheel?"
"No, I didn't see anybody."
"She saw you—and so did Sally Mickleborough. Why, I'd have given something pretty in my day to make a girl's eyes blaze like that."
A week later I swallowed my pride, with an effort, and called at the old grey house at the hour of sunset. Selim, stepping softly, conducted me into the dimly lighted drawing-room, where a cedar log burned, with a delicious fragrance, on a pair of high brass andirons. The red glow, half light, half shadow, flickered over the quaint tapestried furniture, the white-painted woodwork, and the portraits of departed Blands and Fairfaxes that smiled gravely down, with averted eyes. In a massive gilt frame over a rosewood spinet there was a picture of Miss Mitty and Miss Mataoca, painted in fancy dress, with clasped hands, under a garland of roses. My gaze was upon it, when the sound of a door opening quickly somewhere in the rear came to my ears; and the next instant I heard Miss Mitty's prim tones saying distinctly:—
"Tell Mr. Starr, Selim, that the ladies are not receiving."
There was a moment's silence, followed by a voice that brought my delighted heart with a bound into my throat.
"Aunt Mitty, I will see him."
"Sally, how can you receive a man who was not born a gentleman?"