“The fall comes earlier than it used to,” she remarked, drawing a light crocheted shawl about her shoulders.  “Why, I remember when it used to be summer up to the middle of November.  I was talking to Judge Bassett about it yesterday, and he said he certainly thought the seasons had changed since he was a boy.”

“I don’t reckon your father has much opinion of fertilisers,” broke in the general, reverting to his pleasant patronage.

Nicholas answered before Eugenia could interpose.  “No, sir, he doesn’t believe in them much,” he replied.

“Well, you tell him it’s lime he needs,” continued the general.  “The most successful peanut grower I ever knew put about a thousand pounds of lime to an acre, and he cleared—­”

“Have you seen Dudley Webb?” asked Eugenia, shaking her head at the general’s frown.

“For an hour this morning.  He was in Tom Bassett’s office.  He told some good stories.”

Miss Chris heaved a reminiscent sigh.

“That’s poor Julius Webb all over again,” she said.  “He could keep a dinner table laughing for two hours and fight a duel at daybreak.  I remember at his own wedding, when they drank his health, he told such a funny story that old Judge Blitherstone, who was upwards of eighty, had to have cold bandages put to his head.”

The general took his pipe from his mouth.  “Dudley’s a fine young fellow,” he said.  “I saw him yesterday when I went to the post-office.  They tell me he’s making a name for himself in Richmond.”

Eugenia laughed lightly.

“Papa adores Mrs. Webb, so he thinks Dudley splendid,” she said.

“That lady is one of the noblest of her sex,” loyally asserted the general.

“And one of the most trying of either sex,” added his daughter.  “When I came home my last holiday, she asked me what I learned at school, and I danced a skirt dance for her.”

“I always told you you spoiled Eugie to death, Tom,” said Miss Chris in justification of her own responsibility.  “In my day no young lady knew what a skirt dance was.”

“But that’s what I learned at school,” protested Eugenia.

The general, feeling that the conversation excluded Nicholas, renewed his attack.

“What do you think of raising garden products?” he inquired affably.  Then Eugenia rose, and he submissively retired.

“We aren’t going to talk farming any more,” said the girl.  “Nick and I are going into the garden for roses,” and she descended the steps, followed by Nicholas, who was beginning for the first time to breathe freely.

“Tell your father to look into the truck-growing,” was the general’s parting shot.

The garden was flushed with the riot of autumn.  Over the little whitewashed fence double rows of hollyhocks and sunflowers nodded their heavy heads, and bordering the narrow walk were lines of chrysanthemums and dahlias.  October roses, the richest of the year, bloomed and dropped in the quaint old squares where the long vegetable rows began.  At the end of the straight, overgrown walk the hop vines on the fence threw out a pungent odour.