And from the ten minutes in the library of Major Buchanan the disciplining of the heart of Phoebe Donelson began and was carried on with utter relentlessness.  The first castigation occurred when David failed to phone her at two o’clock, and a half-hour later Caroline Darrah called anxiously to know her decision and impart the information that David had arranged that she and Phoebe go out to the fork in her car with Mrs. Buchanan.  Phoebe, to her own surprise, found that she intensely desired another arrangement that involved David and his small electric, but she received the blow with astonishing meekness and delighted Caroline with her enthusiastic acquiescence in the plans for the evening.

And so through the busy afternoon while David Kildare met committees, sent in reports and talked over plans, he also managed to sandwich in the settling of numerous little details that went to make good the night’s sport.  And it was all done in apparent high spirits but with an indignant pain in his usually glad heart.

Meanwhile Caroline Darrah, in a whirl of domestic excitement incident to the preparing of a hamper for the midnight lunch out on the ridge, which she had entreated Mrs. Matilda to leave entirely to her newly-acquired housewifery, stepped into the middle of the pool political and never knew it, in the innocence of her old-fashioned woman’s heart.

“Miss Ca’line,” ventured Jeff as he assisted her in packing the huge hamper that occupied the center of the dining-room table, “is Mister Dave sure ’pinted to be jedge of the criminal court—­he ain’t a-joking is he?”

“Why, no, indeed, Jeff,” answered Caroline Darrah as she rolled sandwiches in oiled paper before putting them into a box.  “What made you think that?”

“Well, it’s a kinder poor white folksy job fer him, fooling with crap-shooting niggers and whisky soaks, but if he wants it he’s got ter have it, hear me!  And Miss Ca’line, some of us colored set has made up our minds that it’s time fer us ter git out and dust ter help him.  You see this here is a independent race and it’s who gits the votes, no ’Publican er Dimocrat to it.  That jest naterally turns the colored vote loose at the polls.  And fer the most of the black fools it’s who bids the mostes, I’m sorry ter say, as is the fact.”

“But you know Mr. David has said from the first that he will not buy a vote.  Will he have to lose—­how many of the colored people are there—­oh, Jeff, will he have to be beaten?” Caroline Darrah clasped a sandwich to the death in her hands and questioned the negro with the same faith that she would have used in questioning Major Buchanan.

“No, ma’am, he ain’t going ter git nigger-beat if we can help it—­us society colored set, you understand, Miss Ca’line.”  Jeff’s manner was an interesting mixture of pomposity and deference.

“I don’t quite understand, Jeff; you explain to me,” answered Caroline Darrah in the kind and respectful voice that she always used to these family servants, which they understood perfectly and in which they took a huge delight.