Julie came swiftly toward them, extending her hand to the Colonel. She was in a state of excitement, like an actress who makes her début in a new rôle. Her color came and went. A crescent of black plaster deepened the darkness of her eyes. The despised hair revenged itself with its beauty; it was mounted in shining, rippling masses on the top of her head. She wore a soft white gown, embroidered with seed pearls, a train of gold sweeping the ground. Her arms and neck were free of ornament; in her corsage a large red American Beauty rose. At dinner she kept up a flow of small talk accentuated by soft glances, winning smiles. The Colonel listened as if every word were a new truth, the usual platitudes taking on a mysterious significance. He was sixty, held himself very erect, could easily be taken for ten years younger, and he loved the ladies.
Floyd was silent, trying to overcome a queer feeling. Was this gracious, smiling woman his wife? Was he sitting at his own table? Who was he, anyhow? The Colonel’s stentorian voice with its agreeable Southern accent broke in on his confused mental condition.
“If you will permit me to tell you how much I admire your perfect taste in dress. You know what suits you—an inspiration to powder your hair.”
“Oh,” laughed Julie, “it’s not powdered, it’s natural. It runs in our family to turn gray early. My father was white at twenty-one.”
The gallant Colonel turned this to his credit.
“My dear Mistress Garrison, Nature has been your Fairy Godmother; she has waved her wand over your head, bestowing one charm more, the gift of original beauty.”
The evening passed quickly in light persiflage, Floyd listening as if he were in the auditorium of a theatre. At the door the Colonel gave one look back. He could have fought a duel for her.
“We haven’t had a chance to talk business,” said Floyd.
“Who could, with such a radiant vision before us?” laughed the Colonel. “Come down to the office.”
Floyd went back to Julie.