“Very cold, Mr. Lynch,” said Ludwell Cary.  “Colonel Ambler—­Mr. Wickham, we meet again!”—­and his brother, “We never have such cold in Albemarle, Mr. Lynch!  Ha, your fire is good, and your wine’s good, and your company’s good.  There’s a table by the fire, Ludwell.”

They moved to it, exchanging greetings, as they went, with half the room, sat down, drank each a glass of wine, and fell to their letters, careless of the surrounding war of words.  The elder’s mail was heavy,—­letters from London, from New York, from Philadelphia, one from his overseer at Greenwood, others from clients, colleagues, and strangers,—­all the varied correspondence of the lawyer, the planter, and the man of the world.  Fairfax Cary’s letters were fewer in number, but one was gilt-edged, curiously folded, and superscribed in a strong and delicate hand.  “Miss Dandridge seals with a dove and an olive branch?” murmured the elder brother.  “Lucky Fair!  What’s the frown for?”

“Olive branch?” quoth the other.  “She should seal with a nettle!  Listen to this:  ’Mr. Hunter has been some time with us at Fontenoy.  Mr. Carter spent his Christmas here—­he dances extremely well.  Mr. Page gives us now and then the pleasure of his company.  He turns the leaves of my music for me.  Mr. Lee and I are reading Sir Charles Grandison together.  I see Mr. Nelson at Saint Anne’s.’  Saint Anne!  Saint Griselda!  Her letters are enough to make a man renounce the world, the flesh, and the devil, and turn Trappist—­”

“I wish the room would turn Trappist,” said the other.  “I am tired of talk.  I would like to be somewhere in the woods to-night—­quiet.  We won’t stay long here.  There has been contention enough to-day.”

The younger leaned forward.  “Lewis Rand is over there—­three tables back.”

“I know.  I saw him when we came in.  Read your letters and we will be gone.”

The minutes passed.  Outside Lynch’s the western red faded, and the still, winter night came quickly on.  Within, fire and candles burned bright, but to not a few of Mr. Lynch’s patrons the flames danced unsteadily.  It was an age of hard drinking; the day had been an exciting one, and Lynch’s wine or punch or apple toddy but the last of many potations.  The assemblage was assuredly not drunken, but neither was it, at this hour and after the emotional wear and tear of the past hours, quite sane or less than hectic.  Its mood was edged.  Now, in the quarter of an hour before the general start for home and supper, foreign and federal affairs gave way to first-hand matters and a review of the day that was closing.  It had been a field day.  The city of Richmond was strongly Federal, the General Assembly mainly Republican.  At Lynch’s this evening were members, Federalist and Republican, of the two Houses, with citizens, planters, visitors enough of either principle.  When the general talk turned upon the Albemarle Resolutions and the morning’s proceedings in the House of Delegates, it was as though an invisible grindstone had put upon the moment a finer edge.