He didn't notice his guest's amazement.
“Then, sir,” he continued, “they introduced these damned trotting races; trotting races are for white trash, Mr. Brice.”
“Pa!”
The Colonel stopped short. Stephen was already on his feet. I wish you could have seen Miss Virginia Carvel as he saw her then. She wore a white lawn dress. A tea-tray was in her hand, and her head was tilted back, as women are apt to do when they carry a burden. It was so that these Southern families, who were so bitter against Abolitionists and Yankees, entertained them when they were poor, and nursed them when they were ill.
Stephen, for his life, could not utter a word. But Virginia turned to him with perfect self-possession.
“He has been boring you with his horses, Mr. Brice,” she said. “Has he told you what a jockey Ned used to be before he weighed one hundred and a quarter?” (A laugh.) “Has he given you the points of Water Witch and Netty Boone?” (More laughter, increasing embarrassment for Stephen.) “Pa, I tell you once more that you will drive every guest from this house. Your jockey talk is intolerable.”
O that you might have a notion of the way in which Virginia pronounced intolerable.
Mr. Carvel reached for another cigar asked, “My dear,” he asked, “how is the Judge?”
“My dear,” said Virginia, smiling, “he is asleep. Mammy Easter is with him, trying to make out what he is saying. He talks in his sleep, just as you do—”
“And what is he saying?” demanded the Colonel, interested.