“Well, I’m going to decide for myself. Come right in. We’ll have a song while Gail makes us a cup of tea. An old soldier’s song for a start—she won’t be listening, so I can suit myself this time.”
And Roderick to his bewilderment found himself clutched by the arm, and being led indoors to the piano like a lamb to the slaughter. Gail had disappeared, and he was actually warbling “Marching through Georgia,” aided by a thunderous chorus from the General.
“As we go marching through Georgia,” echoed Gail, when at the close of the song she advanced from the domestic quarters with sprightly military step, carrying high aloft a tea tray laden with dainty china and gleaming silverware.
All laughed heartily, and a delightful afternoon was initiated—tea and cake, solos and duets, intervals of pleasant conversation, a Schubert sonata by Gail, and a rendition by Roderick of the Soldiers’ Chorus from Faust that fairly won the old General’s heart.
The hours had sped like a dream, and it was in the sunset glow that Roderick, having declined a pressing invitation to stay for dinner, was bidding Gail good-by. She had stepped down from the veranda and was standing by his horse admiring it and patting its silky coat.
“By the way, you mentioned at the Shields’ party that you expected to go trout fishing, Mr. Warfield. Did you have good luck?”
Roderick confessed that as yet he had not treated himself to a day’s sport with the finny tribe. “I was thinking about it this very morning,” he went on, “and was wondering if I had not better secure a companion—someone skilled with rod and reel and fly to go with me, as I am a novice.”
“Oh, I’ll go with you,” she exclaimed quickly. “Would be glad to do so.”
“That’s mighty kind of you, Miss Holden,” replied Roderick, half hesitatingly, while a smile played about his handsome face. “But since you put it that way I would be less than courteous if I did not eagerly and enthusiastically accept. When shall we go?”
“You name the day,” said Gail.