“Really and truly, is that Yankee here?” she demanded, “right here in the house? Caroline said it wasn’t a Yankee––just some friend of yours.”
“So he is.”
“And––a––Yankee?”
He nodded his head and smiled at her. Judithe had picked up a pen and was writing. Evilena glanced towards her for assistance in this astonishing state of affairs, but no one appeared to be shocked but herself.
“Well!” she said, at last, resignedly, “since we are to have any Yankee here, I’m glad it’s the one Gertrude met at Beaufort. I’ve been conjuring up romances about them ever since, and I am curious to see if he looks like the Jack Monroe in the song.”
“Not likely,” said her brother, discouragingly, “he is the least romantic hero for a song you can imagine; but if you put on your prettiest dress and promise not to fight all the battles of the war over with him, I’ll manage that you sit beside him at dinner and make romances about him at closer range, if you can find the material.”
“To think of me dressing my prettiest for a Yankee! and oh, Ken, I can’t dress so astonishingly pretty, either. I’m really,” and she sighed dejectedly, “down to my last party dress.”
“Well, that’s better than none.”
“None!” she endeavored to freeze him with a look, but his smile forbade it, and she left the room, singing