“Of course not. When did you ever know me to write about girls? As I said, I met lots of them at the various houses at which I visited. It seems to me that there are girls everywhere.”
“Thank God for it, too.”
“Well,—yes,—as it were; but you can’t expect a fellow to remember all their names. Oh, there was Lucy Poythress, of course.”
“Yes, I knew she was in Richmond.”
“And then—and then there was a schoolmate of hers,—Miss Mary Rolfe. You know her father, Mr. James Rolfe. Brilliant girl, they say,—talks beautifully—very accomplished, you know, and all that sort of thing.”
“Yes, I have heard she is a really charming girl. What do you say to our having her as one of our Christmas party?” The old man removed his pipe from his mouth. “What do you say, Charley?” And he glanced at the young man’s face with a look that was too eager to be shrewd.
“A capital idea!” exclaimed Charley, spearing another oyster with emphasis.
The old man drew vigorously on his pipe several times, and finding it had gone out, rose for a lighter. “You think,” said he, puffing between his words as he relit his pipe, contemplatively watching the tongue of flame darting down into the bowl, “that we should have her of the party?”
“Most assuredly. She is a fine girl,—you would like her. In fact, we must have her here if possible.”
“Yes,” said the old man, “yes.” And he gazed at the bright coals. He felt that he had not landed his trout. “So you didn’t lose your heart?”