“A dangerous resource,” returned Wynne. “The list of wounded vanities would be large. How like a brown fairy is Miss Pranks! Who shall describe her? No woman will dare.”
“You might ask Mr. Oliver de Laneey,” said Miss Darthea. “She would be secure of a pretty picture.”
“And you,” said Wynne—“who is to be your painter?”
“I shall beg for the place,” cried Andre.
“I think I shall take some rebel officer,” said Darthea, saucily. “Think how fresh we should look to those love-starved gentlemen whom Sir William has brought to such abject submission.”
Andre laughed, but not very heartily. As to Wynne, he was silent. The captain went on to say how sad it was that just as the general was ready to sweep those colonials out of existence—
“Why not say rebels, Andre?” Wynne broke in.
“Better not! better not! I never do. It only makes more bitter what is bad enough. But where are the fireworks?”
Meanwhile I was in dire perplexity, afraid to stir, hoping that they would move away.
“There is a seat hereabouts,” said my cousin.