"Not a Henry Clay Whig?" she hopefully prompted.
"Yes, a Henry Clay Whig yet."
Self-consciously she dropped her head over the back of her chair to be rid of her curls. "My father," she musingly observed, "is a Democrat."
"Yet we can be friends," said Hugh, "can't we?" wondering, when he had asked, why they need be.
Ramsey did not say. With her chin in her collar she looked herself over carefully while she brokenly remarked, "All our men folks—four men—three boys—are—red-hot Democrats."
But on the last word she checked and hearkened, and they smiled together at the far-away whistle of another steamer, deep-toned, mellowed by distance, and long sustained.
"That's a Courteney boat," quietly began Hugh, but Ramsey was up and off.
"The Empress!" she called to her mother as she flew.