He left the room.  Fairfax Cary and Major Edward continued a discussion of the latest Napoleonic victory; Unity played with her spoon and thought of her wedding-gown; Deb drank her glass of milk and planned a visit with Miranda to a blasted pine tree, lived in, all the quarter agreed, by a ha’nt that came out at night, like a ring of smoke out of a great black pipe!

Colonel Dick’s figure appeared for an instant in the doorway.  “Edward, come here a moment, will you?”

“A thousand hussars, and the thing went off like flaming tinder,” finished Major Edward.  He laid down his napkin and arose.  “Excuse me, Unity.  Very well, Dick,” and left the room.

“Unity,” enquired Deb.  “Are there any ha’nts?”

“No, honey, no!”

“Just make believe?”

“Just make believe.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Deb, and fell to wondering if the ha’nt would come out if only she and Miranda sat long enough before the tree.  It might get hungry.

“Will you have another cup?” asked Unity of the guest, her hand upon the coffee-urn.  “No?  Then let us go and see what is the matter.  They are not coming back.”

“I want,” whispered Fairfax Cary, as they left the table, “to talk to you about—­about two weeks from now.  Don’t you think it would be sweet and shady this morning, under the catalpa tree?”

He managed to touch her hand, and she turned her velvety eyes upon him with both laughter and moisture in their black depths.  “I’ve chosen the place for Unity Dandridge’s grave.  Would you like to see it?  It’s underneath the flowering almond.”

Fairfax Cary glanced behind him.  The servants were out of the room; Deb was gathering crumbs for the birds.  “Give me one kiss!  If you knew how much I love you!  The world’s tuned to-day just to that.”

“Such an old tune!  The world has other things to think of and other airs than that!”

They went out into the hail.  It was empty, but through the open doors voices sounded from the porch at the back of the house.  Another moment and Major Edward appeared, stood still at the sight of Cary, then came on up the hall to meet the two.  He looked intensely grey and meagre, and his thin lips twitched.  “Fairfax,” he said,—­“Fairfax, look here—­”

The other, who had been laughing, grew suddenly grave.  “I have never heard you, sir, use a voice like that.  Has anything happened?”

Major Edward made a little noise in his throat, then stiffened himself as if on parade.  “There may have been an accident.  It looks that way, Fair.  It was Eli who came.”

“Eli!  What has happened at Greenwood?  Ludwell’s home?

“Unity, my dear,” said the Major, “let him come with me.  Let’s go into the library, Fair.”

But Fairfax Cary was halfway down the hail.  The Major hastened after him, and at the porch door laid a thin old hand upon the other’s arm.  “Fair, my boy, you are going to need all a man’s courage.  Think of Dick and me as of Fauquier Cary’s—­as of your father’s—­old, old friend Come, now.”