"Well, if he is in love, as you say, whom is he in love with?" demanded Cyrus.
"It's all guesswork," answered Mrs. Peachey. "He isn't paying attention to any girl that I know of—but, I suppose, if it's anybody, it must be Virginia Pendleton. All the young men are crazy about her."
She had been prepared for opposition—she had been prepared, being a lady, for anything, as she told Tom afterwards, short of an oath—but to her amazement the unexpected, which so rarely happened in the case of Cyrus, happened at that minute. Human nature, which she had treated almost as a science, proved suddenly that it was not even an art. One of those glaring inconsistencies which confute every theory and overturn all psychology was manifested before her.
"That's the daughter of old Gabriel, aint it?" asked Cyrus, and unconsciously to himself, his voice softened.
"Yes, she's Gabriel's daughter, and one of the sweetest girls that ever lived."
"Gabriel's a good man," said Cyrus. "I always liked Gabriel. We fought through the war together."
"A better man never lived, nor a better woman than Lucy. If she's got a fault on earth, it's that she's too unselfish."
"Well, if this girl takes after them, the young fool has shown more sense than I gave him credit for."
"I don't think he's a fool," returned Mrs. Peachey, reflecting how wonderfully she had "managed" the great man, "but, of course, he's queer—all writers are queer, aren't they?"
"He's kept it up longer than I thought, but I reckon he's about ready to give in," pursued Cyrus, ignoring her question as he did all excursions into the region of abstract wonder. "If he'll start in to earn his living now, I'll let him have a job on the railroad out in Matoaca City. I meant to teach him a lesson, but I shouldn't like Henry's son to starve. I've nothing against Henry except that he was too soft. He was a good brother as brothers go, and I haven't forgotten it."