“Isn’t there some one,” I asked, “who could—not too directly, of course—suggest that to him?”
“I think I prefer men to be simple,” she returned somewhat quickly.
“Especially when they’re in love,” I reminded her somewhat slowly.
“Do you want some Lady Baltimore to-day?” she inquired in the official Exchange tone.
I rose obediently. “You’re quite right, I should have gone back to the battle of Cowpens long ago, and I’ll just say this—since you asked me what I thought of him—that if he’s descended from that John Mayrant who fought the Serapes under Paul Jones—”
“He is!” she broke in eagerly.
“Then there’s not a name in South Carolina that I’d rather have for my own.”
I intended that thrust to strike home, but she turned it off most competently. “Oh, you mustn’t accept us because of our ancestors. That’s how we’ve been accepting ourselves, and only look where we are in the race!”
“Ah!” I said, as a parting attempt, “don’t pretend you’re not perfectly satisfied—all of you—as to where you are in the race!”
“We don’t pretend anything!” she flashed back.