“Perhaps,” he muttered. “Yes, I agree with you.”
“There, now,” exclaimed Mrs. Marshall in gay humor. “You see Major Carey quite agrees with me. If you could only persuade him, Major, that he should follow in his father’s steps—”
The banker-planter coughed and resorted to his watch chain again.
“Perhaps Morey and I had better have a little talk alone,” he answered at last.
“If you would be so good. Business always hurts my head,” laughed Morey’s mother. The old Virginian bowed again and slipped his arm in Morey’s. Down the long brick walk they strolled until the last iron settee was reached. Major Carey, perspiring, had hardly seated himself when he exclaimed:
“Morey, how old are you?”
“Eighteen, sir, last month.”
His companion nodded his head.
“My son, your father was my best friend. Your mother has as fine and sweet a nature as any woman in Rappahannock County. But she has no more business sense than your old Betty.”