“Wait for me here, Lige,” she said.
She swept in alone, and the door closed softly after her. The room was a big one, and there were maps on the table, with pins sticking in them. She saw that much, and then—!
Could this fantastically tall, stooping figure before her be that of the President of the United States? She stopped, as from the shock he gave her. The lean, yellow face with the mask-like lines all up and down, the unkempt, tousled hair, the beard—why, he was a hundred times more ridiculous than his caricatures. He might have stood for many of the poor white trash farmers she had seen in Kentucky—save for the long black coat.
“Is—is this Mr. Lincoln?” she asked, her breath taken away.
He bowed and smiled down at her. Somehow that smile changed his face a little.
“I guess I'll have to own up,” he answered.
“My name is Virginia Carvel,” she said. “I have come all the way from St. Louis to see you.”
“Miss Carvel,” said the President, looking at her intently, “I have rarely been so flattered in my life. I—I hope I have not disappointed you.”
Virginia was justly angry.
“Oh, you haven't,” she cried, her eyes flashing, “because I am what you would call a Rebel.”