“Poh! Wigman was so drunk he couldn’t distinguish jest from earnest.”
“So Robson told me. But touching this Miss Brown,—is she as pretty as her photograph would declare?”
“It hardly does her justice. But her sweet face is the least of her charms. She talks well,—sings well,—plays well,—and, young as she is, has the bearing, the dignity, the grace, of the consummate lady.”
Here there was another rustling, as if the grape-vine were pulled. Ratcliff started, went to the window, looked out, but, seeing nothing, remarked, “The wind must be rising,” and returned to his seat. “I’ve omitted,” said he, “to ask after your family; are they well?”
“Yes; they were in Austin when I heard from them last. My father, I grieve to say, goes with Hamilton and his set in opposition to the Southern movement. My brother, William Temple, is equally infatuated. My mother and sister of course acquiesce. So I’m the only faithful one of my family.”
“You deserve a colonelcy for that.”
“Thank you. Is your clock right?”
“Yes.”
“Then I must go. I’ve an engagement.”
“Sorry for it. Beware of Miss Brown. This is the day of Mars, not Venus. Good by.”