Dinwiddie was not a man of words. He had a wholesome horror of strong-minded women; and to that class he discovered, too late for his peace, that his wife belonged. So he simply replied, slightly stuttering, as was his wont, except when excited,—
"If I had joined the army, Madam, I should have—have—ve"——
"I should have what?"
"I should have been deprived of your—ahem—agreeable society; and then you might have been a wid—wid—widow."
"I should have been proud. Sir, to have been your widow under such circumstances."
"Thank you, Mrs. Dinwiddie; but being a mod—mod—modest man myself, I'd rather not make my wife proud."
"There's no danger of your ever doing that, Sir," quoth Madam; "but I thank Heaven we're not wholly disgraced. We have one representative of our family in the Confederate army. My son Culpepper may live to make amends for his sire's degeneracy."
Dinwiddie was beginning to get roused.
"My degeneracy, Madam? Confound it, Madam, where would you and yours have been, if I hadn't saved you all from pau—pau—pauperism, Madam?"
It was rare that Dinwiddie made so long a speech, and the lady was astounded.