"Do you see that man, Daisy?" whispered Preston, suddenly in my ear. "That one talking to a lady in blue."
We were on the parade ground, among a crowd of spectators, for the hotels were very full, and the Point very gay now. I said I saw him.
"That is a great man."
"Is he?" I said, looking and wondering if a great man could hide behind such a physiognomy.
"Other people think so, I can tell you," said Preston. "Nobody knows what that man can do. That is Davis of Mississippi."
The name meant nothing to me then. I looked at him as I would have looked at another man. And I did not like what I saw. Something of sinister, nothing noble, about the countenance; power there might be—Preston said there was—but the power of the fox and the vulture it seemed to me; sly, crafty, selfish, cruel.
"If nobody knows what he can do, how is it so certain that he is a great man?" I asked. Preston did not answer. "I hope there are not many great men that look like him." I went on.
"Nonsense, Daisy!" said Preston, in an energetic whisper. "That is Davis of Mississippi."
"Well?" said I. "That is no more to me than if he were Jones of New York."
"Daisy!" said Preston. "If you are not a true Southerner, I will never love you any more."