“The turtle came from a ship at Norfolk, and was sent hither by Major Cabell, who added a dozen of port of his own importation,” said Zuleime, dying with anxiety to hear from Frank.
“Ah-h-h-h! That was kind! He’s a fellow! He’ll make a magnificent husband and son-in-law, Zuleime! I hope you know how turtle soup should be made?”
“Father, I know it should be eaten quite hot, and it is on the table by this time. Come in.”
The old man needed no pressing, but went into the dining-room, and sat down at the table, with a face radiant with delight. Zuleime waited on him, although there was a servant in attendance. And when he had freely partaken of turtle soup, devilled crabs, a roasted fowl, etc., washed them down with port wine, she brought him a cup of fragrant Mocha coffee and his case of cigars. And he sipped the coffee with an air of infinite leisure, and then lit a cigar and puffed slowly away, as if eternity was before him.
“Father, what news from Winchester?” again asked Zuleime, though her hopes had fallen very low. “What news, dear father?”
“What’s that to you, my pet? Will you let me digest my supper in peace?”
Zuleime sat down, but looked so anxious, that her very looks worried the old gentleman, and he said—
“Don’t you know, girl, that indigestion is very dangerous to a man of my time of life? It may bring on apoplexy! Don’t worry me!”
Zuleime veiled her anxious gaze, but even then the paleness of her cheeks annoyed her father, and he testily inquired—
“Now, what is it to you? I can understand Carolyn’s anxiety. I cannot comprehend yours at all! There, now. Go and send my wife to me!”