Then they laughed. “We are really to be neighbors after all our quarrel in the mountains? Well!” she added, hospitably, “a cover will always be laid for you at our table, and you shall have due warning of any entertainment that may take place. It shall be my duty to see that you are thoroughly won over to the South; to her traditions as well as her pleasures.”
“But changing this flippant subject to one of graver importance, just now; there is one thing absolutely necessary for you Kentuckians to learn before you win me.” His face lighted with a charming smile.
“What is that?” she asked.
“You must first know how to make Manhattan cocktails.”
She answered with a pretty pout, “I—we can make them now; why shouldn’t we? Doesn’t all the good whiskey you get up North come from the bluegrass state?”
Amused at her loyalty, Elliott assented willingly: “That is a fact. And I like your whiskey,—a little of it—I like your state—all of it—its bluegrass, its thoroughbreds, and its women. But, you will pardon me, there is something wanting in its cocktails, perhaps—it’s the cherry!”
“A fault that can be easily remedied, and—suppose we did succeed, would you belong to us?”
“I’m afraid I would,” he agreed smilingly.
Here the music of the two-step stopped, and Uncle Josh, the old negro fiddler, famous the country over for calling the figures of the dance, straightened himself with dignity, and called loudly:
“Pardners for de las’ waltz ’fore supper!”