The doctor shut his office door with a vicious slam and from the vantage of the wire window-screen looked sourly across the beds of marigold and nasturtium.
“I reckon if Mrs. Poly Gifford shut her mouth more than ten minutes hand-running,” he said malevolently, “the top of her head’d fly from here to Charlottesville. What on earth can they find to gabble about? They’ve been at it since ten o’clock!”
The major, ensconced with a cigar in the easy chair behind him, flourished his palm-leaf fan and smote an errant fly. He was in gayest plumage. His fine white waistcoat was a miracle, his spats a pattern, and the pink in his button-hole had a Beau Brummelish air which many a youthful gallant was to envy him ere the day was done.
“Speaking of Damory Court,” he said in his big voice. “The dance idea was a happy thought of young Valiant’s. I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t do it to the queen’s taste.”
The doctor nodded. “This place can’t teach him much about such folderolings, I reckon. He’s led more cotillions than I’ve got hairs on my head.”
“I’d hardly limit it to that,” said the major, chortling at the easy thrust. “And after all, even folderolings have their use.”
“Who said they hadn’t? If people choose to make whirling dervishes of themselves, they at least can reflect that it’s better for their livers than cane-bottom chairs. Though that’s about all you can say in favor of the modern ball.”
“Pshaw!” said the major. “I remember a time when you used to rig out in a claw-hammer and
“‘Dance all night till broad daylight
And go home with the gyrls in the morning,’