Onslow took the photograph, and exclaimed: “But this is astonishing! I’ve a copy of the same in my pocket.”
“You surprise me, Captain. Do you know the original?”
“Quite well; and I grant you she’s beautiful.”
Onslow did not notice the expression of Ratcliff’s face at this confession, but another did. Lifting a glass of Burgundy so as to help his affectation of indifference, “Confess now, Captain,” said Ratcliff, “that you’re a favorite! That delicate mouth has been pressed by your lips; those ivory shoulders have known your touch.”
“O never! never!” returned Onslow, with the emphasis of sincerity in his tone. “You misjudge the character of the lady. She’s a friend of Miss Tremaine,—is now passing a few days with her at the St. Charles. A lady wholly respectable. Miss Perdita Brown of St. Louis! That rascally photographer ought to be whipped for making money out of her beautiful picture.”
“Has she admirers in her train?” asked Ratcliff.
“I know of but one beside myself.”
“Indeed! And who is he?”
“Charles Kenrick has called on her with me.”
“By the way, Wigman tells me that Charles insulted the flag the other day.”