"How you preach, mamma!" said Miss Lady, petulantly. "You are always talking to me about the men. As if I cared a straw!"
"You ought to care, Lady. Men! Why, there's nothing in the world for a woman except the men."
Miss Lady said nothing, but went on adjusting a pin which she took from among several others held in her mouth. At length she patted down her gown, and frowned with a sigh of satisfaction, as she looked down over her long and adequate curves. Discovering a wrinkle in the skirt of her gown, she smoothed it out deftly with both hands.
"There are not very many gentlemen to bother about down at the Big
House now, mamma," said she; "at least, not since Mr. Decherd left.
But then, he's coming back. Did you know that?"
Mrs. Ellison's face showed a swift gleam of satisfaction. "I hope he will," said she. "But, after all, we must sometime go somewhere else. Now, New Orleans, or New York perhaps. You are almost pretty sometimes, Lady. We could do things with you, in the right place."
Miss Lady stamped her foot upon the floor in sudden fury. "Mamma," cried she, "when you talk this way I fairly hate you!"
"You talk like all the foolish Ellisons," said the other, slowly. "Now, I could tell you things, when the time came. But, meantime, you forget that you and I have absolutely no resources."
"Excepting me!" This with white scorn.
"Excepting you." This with frank cynicism.
Miss Lady controlled herself with difficulty. "At least," said she, "we have a home with Colonel Blount. He has always said he wanted us to stay, and that he couldn't do without us. Now"—and she laughed gaily—"if Colonel Blount didn't have a red mustache, I might marry him, mightn't I?"