“If we could only get back to Old Hickory in the White House, and the mail twice a week from New York, brought in the stage coach—”
“And Old Hickory’s penchant for Mrs. Eaton, and half the Congress getting tight at the White House New Year’s Day. We ought to have it all.”
“Yes—yes—Zounds, sir, we ought to have it all!”
Then there was the ball to talk about, and presently, Pembroke declining the Colonel’s hearty invitation to stay and dine off whatever miserable fare a city market afforded, and try some port he had brought from Virginia, knowing there was nothing fit to drink to be had in Washington, he left. Olivia’s invitation to stay was rather faint—had it been heartier, perhaps he might have remained. As it was, he went home, and surprised Miles by coming in whistling jovially.
CHAPTER XV.
The night of the ball arrived. Olivia and her father, the De Peysters and Pembroke had all agreed to go in one party. The De Peysters had been very kind and attentive to Olivia. Her gentle ways had captivated Mrs. De Peyster, and the fun innate in her had done the same for Helena. They had asked Olivia to receive with them on their reception day, and she had made quite a little success on her first appearance in Washington society. She sat behind a cosy tea table in an alcove, and poured tea with much grace. She was a good linguist, and put two or three young diplomatists, struggling with the English tongue, at ease by talking to them in their own language. She possessed the indefinable charm of good breeding, never more effective than when contrasted with the flamboyant, cosmopolitan Washington society. The women soon found out that the men flocked around her. She had half a dozen invitations before the day was out. Helena, a soft, blonde, kittenish young thing, was in raptures over her, admiring her as only a very young girl can admire and adore one a little older than herself. Pembroke was among the later callers, and, strange to say, Miles was with him. There were but few persons there by that time, and these Mrs. De Peyster was entertaining in the large drawing-room. Helena brought Miles into the little alcove and plied him with soft speeches, tea and cakes. Pembroke and Olivia sitting by exchanged smiles at the two enjoying themselves boy and girl fashion. Helena was but nineteen, and Miles had not yet passed his twenty-third birthday. The horror of his wound was added to by the youth of his features.
“Now take this little cake,” said Helena, earnestly. “I made these myself. Do you know that I can make cakes?”
“What an accomplished girl! I shall be afraid of you. I learned to make ash cakes during the war,” answered Miles as gravely.
“What is an ash cake, pray?”
“Why, it’s—it’s—corn bread baked in the ashes.”