“Yes,” replied Miss Stead with a mischievous smile, “and I hear that Colonel Washington has taken the beautiful bay mare for his own mount, and named her ‘Jane.’”

“That’s a piece of his Virginia impudence,” rejoined Miss Elliott.  “I have met him only once, at General Izard’s, and I think he has taken a great liberty with my name.  They say he behaved splendidly at Trenton and Princeton.”

“Oh, I wish he would call while I am here,” said her companion.  “They say he is an elegant rider.  I wonder if he looks like the general?  I don’t believe any Virginian can ride better than our young men.  I wonder if he can take up a handful of sand at a gallop, like cousin John Izard?”

“Or jump his horse on the table,” suggested Miss Elliott with a roguish glance, “as I’ve heard that Mr. Izard did one day after a club-dinner.”

Miss Stead colored slightly as she said that the gentlemen all complained of the strength of the last box of claret received from Charleston before the club was broken up.

“I hear that Colonel Washington is a fine swordsman,” said Miss Elliott, “and that his troop are all bold riders.  They have fought Tarleton’s Legion once or twice in skirmishes, and they say the red-coats are rather shy of them.”

Just at this point the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Billy, bearing a peace-offering in the shape of a huge waiter of luncheon.  Billy was butler and major-domo to the establishment, and the young ladies could not restrain their mirth at the profusion and variety with which the faithful fellow was evidently trying to make amends for the disappointment which his high sense of duty had compelled him to inflict upon them.  Had there been a dozen instead of two, there would have been ample provision for their wants upon the broad silver salver.  Cakes and jellies, preserves and sandwiches, tarts and ruddy apples, a decanter of sherry and a stand of liqueurs, left barely room enough for the dainty little plates and glasses, while Billy’s special apology appeared in the form of two steaming little tumblers of rum-punch, the characteristic beverage of the day.  All severity of tone and manner had disappeared, and there was something almost chivalric in the deferential smile and rude grace with which the old fellow handed his waiter to the ladies and assured them of the harmless mildness of the punch.  Depositing his burden upon a little stand within easy reach of the sofa, Billy turned to leave, but paused as his eye wandered down the opening vista of the avenue, and after gazing for a moment in silence he suddenly exclaimed, “Dere’s two sojer gemplemans comin’ t’rough de big gate.”