“Yes, indeed,” assented Jacqueline.  “I like him very much.  How well he talks!  And travel has not made him forget the old days here.”

The Major plucked another sprig of box.  “In the old days, my dear, your father and your Uncle Dick and I used to plan—­well, well, castles in Spain! castles in Spain!  But he’s a handsome fellow!”

“He is indeed,” said Jacqueline.  “His eyes are especially fine.  I like that clear grey—­frank and kind.”

“He has sense and principle—­he has mind.”

“That is evident,” answered his niece.  “He does everything admirably.  Last night after supper he read to Unity and me.  He reads extremely well.  The book was the Death of Wallenstein.  He made me see that murder!  My heart stood still.”

“He is to be admired for standing up to-day against that damned demagogue, Lewis Rand!  No matter if he is defeated.  Every gentleman applauds him.  You women adore victory, but let me tell you, a vanquished Federalist is still the conqueror of any ranting Republican!”

“Did I tell you,” asked Jacqueline, “that Mr. Pincornet holds the dancing class at Fontenoy this week?”

“The dancing class be damned!  Ludwell Cary is a man and a gentleman, Jacqueline—­”

“Yes,” said Jacqueline.

The Major threw away his sprig of box.  “The Sphinx was a woman, and every woman is an incarnate riddle!  Why don’t you care for him, Jacqueline?”

“I do care for him.  I like him very much.”

“Pshaw!” said the Major irritably.  “Don’t look at that rose any longer!  It’s cankered!  And it’s time that Dick and I were off.  We vote—­” he put his shapely, nervous hand upon his niece’s shoulder—­“we vote, Jacqueline, for Ludwell Cary.”

“Yes, uncle,” said Jacqueline.  “I know—­I know.”

Colonel Dick Churchill, large and beaming, and Major Edward Churchill, thin and saturnine, rode away, and from between the white pillars Deb and Jacqueline watched them go.  Colonel Dick’s wife was an invalid, and lay always in the cool and spacious “chamber,” between dimity bed curtains, with her key basket on the counterpane.

“Jacqueline,” said Deb, “whom do you vote for?”

“Women do not vote, honey.”

“But if you did vote, Jacqueline?”

“Do you remember,” asked Jacqueline, “how Lady Mary Wortley Montagu offended Mr. Alexander Pope?”

“Ah,” said Deb.  “I’m little, and I ask questions, but I’m not crooked!  Will Mr. Lewis Rand ever come to Fontenoy, Jacqueline?”

“You are going to wear your blue gown to the dancing class,” said Jacqueline.  “Unity is going to wear her yellow jaconet, and I shall wear white.  I will make you a wreath of syringa like stars.  And you may wear your gloves.”

“Oh-h!” breathed Deb.  “And my cornelian ring—­and the flowered scarf—­and—­and your fan, Jacqueline?”

“Yes,” said Jacqueline.  “I am tired this morning, Deb.  The sunlight is so strong.  I think I’ll go darken my room, and lie down upon my bed.”