"It doesn't matter. He was a colonel. And you're not very respectful to history. We don't laugh at the Civil War."
I acknowledged the rebuke. We rode for a mile or two in silence—a privilege which our friendship had already attained.
"There's the inn," Helen said, pointing down toward the plain on our left. About half a mile away I saw a group of white buildings gathered about the main road. A cross road took us to the front door. In the stable yard we saw the horses of the others already there—among them, Miss Hershey's white animal looming up with horrible distinctness. He looked positively symbolic. When we dismounted we found Miss Hershey awaiting us. The horse had not belied her; like it, she was broad and imposing across the withers. Her black-plumed riding hat suggested one of General Morgan's raiders.
"Helen, where have you been?" she began severely. Her Southern intonation added a doom-like sound to the interrogatory.
"We took the Ridge Road—it was pleasanter," Helen replied with an innocent calm which I envied her.
"At least, I should think that you, Edward, were old enough to have a sense of responsibility."
This sudden shift of the attack threw me into great confusion. Helen pinched my arm, I didn't know why. Evidently some defence was expected.
"I—I didn't know we had—er—lost you," I murmured, unconvincingly and ungallantly, as I suddenly realized, for it threw the onus upon Helen.
"Edward, you will ride with me going back." And Miss Hershey did something I had always wanted to see: she swept into the inn, I had often read of people sweeping away from a situation and wondered how they did it. I was no longer in any doubt. It really was an effective exit. Helen laughed, most inappropriately, I thought.
"Ted, it's all right. You'll ride with me—if I want you to. And she called you 'Edward' twice. That's an awfully good sign—she's very particular about using Christian names—didn't you feel me pinch your arm when she said 'Edward'?"