One of the many things which came home to me during the conversation that now began (so many more things came home than I can tell you!) was that Mrs. Gregory St. Michael’s tongue was assuredly “downright” for Kings Port.  This I had not at all taken in while she talked to me, and her friend’s reference to it had left me somewhat at a loss.  That better precision and choice of words which I have mentioned, and the manner in which she announced her opinions, had put me in mind of several fine ladles whom I had known in other parts of the world; but hers was an individual manner, I was soon to find, and by no means the Kings Port convention.  This convention permitted, indeed, condemnations of one’s neighbor no less sweeping, but it conveyed them in a phraseology far more restrained.

“I cannot regret your coming to Kings Port,” said my hostess, after we had talked for a little while, and I had complimented the balmy March weather and the wealth of blooming flowers; “but I fear that Fanning is not a name that you will find here.  It belongs to North Carolina.”

I smiled and explained that North Carolina Fannings were useless to me.  “And, if I may be so bold, how well you are acquainted with my errand!”

I cannot say that my hostess smiled, that would be too definite; but I can say that she did not permit herself to smile, and that she let me see this repression.  “Yes,” she said, “we are acquainted with your errand, though not with its motive.”

I sat silent, thinking of the Exchange.

My hostess now gave me her own account of why all things were known to all people in this town.  “The distances in your Northern cities are greater, and their population is much greater.  There are but few of us in Kings Port.”  In these last words she plainly told me that those “few” desired no others.  She next added:  “My nephew, John Mayrant, has spoken of you at some length.”

I bowed.  “I had the pleasure to see and hear him order a wedding cake.”

“Yes.  From Eliza La Heu (pronounced Layhew), my niece; he is my nephew, she is my niece on the other side.  My niece is a beginner at the Exchange.  We hope that she will fulfil her duties there in a worthy manner.  She comes from a family which is schooled to meet responsibilities.”

I bowed again; again it seemed fitting.  “I had not, until now, known the charming girl’s name,” I murmured.

My hostess now bowed slightly.  “I am glad that you find her charming.”

“Indeed, yes!” I exclaimed.

“We, also, are pleased with her.  She is of good family—­for the up-country.”

Once again our alphabet fails me.  The peculiar shade of kindness, of recognition, of patronage, which my agreeable hostess (and all Kings Port ladies, I soon noticed) imparted to the word “up-country” cannot be conveyed except by the human voice—­and only a Kings Port voice at that.  It is a much lighter damnation than what they make of the phrase “from Georgia,” which I was soon to hear uttered by the lips of the lady.  “And so you know about his wedding cake?”