Sandy approached the carriage, lifting his hat with a slight exaggeration of Chesterfieldian elegance.  Sandy, no less than his master, was a survival of an interesting type.  He had inherited the feudal deference for his superiors in position, joined to a certain self-respect which saved him from sycophancy.  His manners had been formed upon those of old Mr. Delamere, and were not a bad imitation; for in the man, as in the master, they were the harmonious reflection of a mental state.

“How is Mr. Delamere, Sandy?” asked Mrs. Carteret, acknowledging Sandy’s salutation with a nod and a smile.

“He ain’t ez peart ez he has be’n, ma’am,” replied Sandy, “but he’s doin’ tol’able well.  De doctuh say he’s good fer a dozen years yit, ef he’ll jes’ take good keer of hisse’f an’ keep f’m gittin’ excited; fer sence dat secon’ stroke, excitement is dange’ous fer ’im.”

“I’m sure you take the best care of him,” returned Mrs. Carteret kindly.

“You can’t do anything for him, Sandy,” interposed old Mrs. Ochiltree, shaking her head slowly to emphasize her dissent.  “All the doctors in creation couldn’t keep him alive another year.  I shall outlive him by twenty years, though we are not far from the same age.”

“Lawd, ma’am!” exclaimed Sandy, lifting his hands in affected amazement,—­his study of gentle manners had been more than superficial,—­“whoever would ‘a’ s’picion’ dat you an’ Mars John wuz nigh de same age?  I’d ‘a’ ’lowed you wuz ten years younger ’n him, easy, ef you wuz a day!”

“Give my compliments to the poor old gentleman,” returned Mrs. Ochiltree, with a simper of senile vanity, though her back was weakening under the strain of the effort to sit erect that she might maintain this illusion of comparative youthfulness.  “Bring him to see me some day when he is able to walk.”

“Yas’m, I will,” rejoined Sandy.  “He’s gwine out ter Belleview nex’ week, fer ter stay a mont’ er so, but I’ll fetch him ‘roun’ w’en he comes back.  I’ll tell ’im dat you ladies ’quired fer ’im.”

Sandy made another deep bow, and held his hat in his hand until the carriage had moved away.  He had not condescended to notice the coachman at all, who was one of the young negroes of the new generation; while Sandy regarded himself as belonging to the quality, and seldom stooped to notice those beneath him.  It would not have been becoming in him, either, while conversing with white ladies, to have noticed a colored servant.  Moreover, the coachman was a Baptist, while Sandy was a Methodist, though under a cloud, and considered a Methodist in poor standing as better than a Baptist of any degree of sanctity.

“Lawd, Lawd!” chuckled Sandy, after the carriage had departed, “I never seed nothin’ lack de way dat ole lady do keep up her temper!  Wid one foot in de grave, an’ de other hov’rin’ on de edge, she talks ’bout my ole marster lack he wuz in his secon’ chil’hood.  But I’m jes’ willin’ ter bet dat he’ll outlas’ her!  She ain’t half de woman she wuz dat night I waited on de table at de christenin’ pa’ty, w’en she ’lowed she wuzn’ feared er no man livin’.”