To compare anybody to the horrent-whiskered Russ who had dined with the Atkinses on his way to Washington, was the highest compliment Mrs. Atkins could pay. Count Blomanosoff was the god of her idolatry.
“Dear me, I wish he would come!” exclaimed Julia, fidgeting in her chair.
As if in response to her wish, and before her mother could again entreat her to show her breeding, the door-bell rang.
“Here he is, be Jove!” cried Thomas, amidst a general flutter and movement.
Anxious silence succeeded, while Michael was shuffling to the door. Presently, the noise of entering feet, a full, decisive voice saying something, and a soft, smooth, courteous voice answering; then, after a moment’s pause, the drawing-room door swung open, and behind the sturdy form of Mr. Lemuel Atkins, the enraptured ladies saw the rich brunette complexion, the long waven hair and thick moustache, and the lordly figure of their Southern guest.
At the first glance they were enchanted. So handsome, so gallant, so chivalrous! Mrs. Atkins rose with a sweeping rustle of flounces, and stepped forward; and there was a general rustle of rising and moving as the two entered.
“Here we are,” cried Mr. Atkins, in his rotund, energetic voice, striding in as he spoke, with a smile on his hard visage, and stepping aside to pause and turn with an extended hand toward his guest. “Mr. Lafitte, I have the honor to present you to my wife. My love, Mr. Lafitte, of Louisiana.”
Mrs. Atkins curtseyed low as she slid forward with outstretched hand, her waxen face slightly colored, and wreathed with smiles.
“I am most happy to see you, Mr. Lafitte,” she softly murmured, “and I am delighted to welcome you to Boston.”