“Over half a century,” said Colonel Carvel.
“If it came from the ruins of Pompeii,” cried Captain Brent, “it might be worthy of her!”
“What an idiot you are about that child, Lige,” said the Colonel, who was not hiding his pleasure. The Colonel could hide nothing. “You ruin her!”
The bluff young Captain put down his glass to laugh.
“Ruin her!” he exclaimed. “Her pa don't ruin her I eh, Ephum? Her pa don't ruin her!”
“Lawsy, Marse Lige, I reckon he's wuss'n any.”
“Ephum,” said the Colonel, pulling his goatee thoughtfully, “you're a damned impertinent nigger. I vow I'll sell you South one of these days. Have you taken that letter to Mr. Renault?” He winked at his friend as the old darkey faded into the darkness of the store, and continued: “Did I ever tell you about Wilson Peale's portrait of my grandmother, Dorothy Carvel, that I saw this summer at my brother Daniel's, in Pennsylvania? Jinny's going to look something like her, sir. Um! She was a fine woman. Black hair, though. Jinny's is brown, like her Ma's.” The Colonel handed a cigar to Captain Brent, and lit one himself. “Daniel has a book my grandfather wrote, mostly about her. Lord, I remember her! She was the queen-bee of the family while she lived. I wish some of us had her spirit.”
“Colonel,” remarked Captain Lige, “what's this I heard on the levee just now about your shootin' at a man named Babcock on the steps here?”
The Colonel became very grave. His face seemed to grow longer as he pulled his goatee.
“He was standing right where you are, sir,” he replied (Captain Lige moved), “and he proposed that I should buy his influence.”