In the upper rotunda of the Palace Hotel the town’s most illustrious were assembled for the honour of being presented to the distinguished guests previous to the expected address.  Outside, Elmville’s inglorious but patriotic masses filled the streets.

Here, in the hotel General Deffenbaugh was holding in reserve Elmville’s trump card.  Elmville knew; for the trump was a fixed one, and its lead consecrated by archaic custom.

At the proper moment Governor Pemberton, beautifully venerable, magnificently antique, tall, paramount, stepped forward upon the arm of the General.

Elmville watched and harked with bated breath.  Never until now—­when a Northern President of the United States should clasp hands with ex-war-Governor Pemberton would the breach be entirely closed—­would the country be made one and indivisible—­no North, not much South, very little East, and no West to speak of.  So Elmville excitedly scraped kalsomine from the walls of the Palace Hotel with its Sunday best, and waited for the Voice to speak.

And Billy!  We had nearly forgotten Billy.  He was cast for Son, and he waited patiently for his cue.  He carried his “plug” in his hand, and felt serene.  He admired his father’s striking air and pose.  After all, it was a great deal to be a son of a man who could so gallantly hold the position of a cynosure for three generations.

General Deffenbaugh cleared his throat.  Elmville opened its mouth, and squirmed.  The chieftain with the kindly, fateful face was holding out his hand, smiling.  Ex-war-Governor Pemberton extended his own across the chasm.  But what was this the General was saying?

“Mr. President, allow me to present to you one who has the honour to be the father of our foremost, distinguished citizen, learned and honoured jurist, beloved townsman, and model Southern gentleman—­the Honourable William B. Pemberton.”

XV

THE ENCHANTED KISS

But a clerk in the Cut-rate Drug Store was Samuel Tansey, yet his slender frame was a pad that enfolded the passion of Romeo, the gloom of Laura, the romance of D’Artagnan, and the desperate inspiration of Melnotte.  Pity, then, that he had been denied expression, that he was doomed to the burden of utter timidity and diffidence, that Fate had set him tongue-tied and scarlet before the muslin-clad angels whom he adored and vainly longed to rescue, clasp, comfort, and subdue.

The clock’s hands were pointing close upon the hour of ten while Tansey was playing billiards with a number of his friends.  On alternate evenings he was released from duty at the store after seven o’clock.  Even among his fellow-men Tansey was timorous and constrained.  In his imagination he had done valiant deeds and performed acts of distinguished gallantry; but in fact he was a sallow youth of twenty-three, with an over-modest demeanour and scant vocabulary.