“Why, where upon the face of the earth did you come from?” inquired Cornelia, scarcely restrained by the presence of others from seizing and covering her friend with caresses.
“From Loudoun street,” answered Miss De Lancie gayly, as she shook hands right and left.
“From Loudoun street? that will do! How long have you been in Loudoun street, sweetheart? You were not there when we passed through the town in coming hither.” said Colonel Compton.
“I arrived only the day before yesterday, rested a day, and hearing that you were at the Lodge, came hither, this morning, to breakfast with you.”
“Enchanted to see you, my dear! truly so! But—you arrived the day before yesterday—whence?”
“I may be mistaken, yet it seems to me that Colonel Compton’s asking questions,” said Marguerite, with good-humored sarcasm.
“Oh! ah! I beg pardon, ten thousand pardons, as the French say,” replied Colonel Compton, bowing with much deprecation, and then raising a bumper of eggnog. “To our reconciliation, Miss De Lancie,” he continued, offering to her the first, and filling for himself a second goblet.
“Paix à vous,” said Marguerite, pledging him.
“And now to breakfast—sortez, sortez!” exclaimed the Colonel, leading the way to the dining-room.
Cornelia was, to use her own expression, “dying” to be alone with Marguerite, to hear the history of the last seven months absence. Never before was she more impatient over the progress of a meal, never before seemed the epicureanism of old folks so tedious, or the appetites of young people so unbecoming; notwithstanding which the coffee, tea and chocolate, the waffles, rolls and corn pone, the fresh venison, ham, and partridges were enjoyed by the company with equal gusto and deliberation.