“Now, I come to think of it, you’re the only girl I’ve met to-day who hasn’t mentioned my speech. That’s strange.”
“How do you know that I’m not saving up something very pretty to say to you later about it?”
“Tell me now.”
“No, you’ve spoiled it by your vanity in asking.” She said this looking away carelessly.
“Then I ’ll interpret your silence as the highest compliment you can pay me. When words fail we are deeply moved.”
“Vanity of vanity, all is vanity saith the preacher!” she exclaimed lifting her pretty hands.
They turned through a high arched iron gateway, across which was written in gold letters, “Oakwood.”
On a gently rising hill on the banks of the Catawba river rose a splendid old Southern mansion, its big Greek columns gleaming through the green trees like polished ivory. A wide porch ran across the full width of the house behind the big pillars, and smaller columns supported the full sweep of a great balcony above. The house was built of brick with Portland cement finish, and the whole painted in two shades of old ivory, with moss-green roof and dark rich Pompeian red brick foundations. With its green background of magnolia trees it seemed like a huge block of solid ivory flashing in splendour from its throne on the hill. The drive wound down a little dale, around a great circle filled with shrubbery and flowers and up to the pillared porte-cochere.
“Oh! what a beautiful home!” Gaston exclaimed with feeling.
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” she said with delight. “I love every brick in its walls, every tree and flower and blade of grass.”