“I think you might call me General, too,” he said, with the grace that many simple people found inherent in him. “And may I ask your name, young lady?”
“Cynthia Wetherell—General,” she said smiling.
“That sounds more natural,” said the President, and then to Ephraim, “Your daughter?”
“I couldn't think more of her if she was,” answered Ephraim; “Cynthy's pulled me through some tight spells. Her mother was my cousin, General. My name's Prescott—Ephraim Prescott.”
“Ephraim Prescott!” ejaculated the President, sharply, taking his cigar from his mouth, “Ephraim Prescott!”
“Prescott—that's right—Prescott, General,” repeated Ephraim, sorely puzzled by these manifestations of amazement.
“What did you come to Washington for?” asked the President.
“Well, General, I kind of hate to tell you—I didn't intend to mention that. I guess I won't say nothin' about it,” he added, “we've had such a sociable time. I've always b'en a little mite ashamed of it, General, ever since 'twas first mentioned.”
“Good Lord!” said the President again, and then he looked at Cynthia. “What is it, Miss Cynthia?” he asked.
It was now Cynthia's turn to be a little confused.