When at last the luncheon was packed there was coffee in the thermos bottle.  Prohibition was an assured fact, and the Judge would not break the laws.  The flowing glass must go into the discard with other picturesque customs of the South.  His own estate that had once been sold by John Randolph to Thomas Jefferson for a bowl of arrack punch——!  Old times, old manners!  The Judge drank his coffee with the air of one who accepts a good thing regretfully.  He stood staunchly by the Administration.  If the President had asked the sacrifice of his head, he would have offered it on the platter of political allegiance.

So on this August morning, an aristocrat by inheritance, and a democrat by assumption, he drove his bays proudly.  Calvin, in a worn blue coat, sat beside him with his arms folded.

Becky was on the back seat with Aunt Claudia.  Aunt Claudia was a widow and wore black.  She was small and slight, and the black was made smart by touches of white crepe.  Aunt Claudia had not forgotten that she had been a belle in Richmond.  She was a stately little woman with a firm conviction of the necessity of maintaining dignified standards of living.  She was in no sense a snob.  But she held that women of birth and breeding must preserve the fastidiousness of their ideals, lest there be social chaos.

“There would be no ladies left in the world,” she often told Becky, “if we older women went at the modern pace.”

Becky, in contrast to Aunt Claudia’s smartness, showed up rather ingloriously.  She wore the stubbed russet shoes, a not too fresh cotton frock of pale yellow, and a brown straw sailor.

“You might at least have stopped to change your shoes,” Aunt Claudia told her, as they left the house behind.

“I was out with Randy and the dogs.  It was heavenly, Aunt Claudia.”

“My dear, if a walk with Randy is heavenly, what will you call Heaven when you get to it?”

They drove through the first gate, and Calvin climbed down to open it.  Beyond the gate the road descended gradually through an open pasture, where sheep grazed on the hillside or lay at rest in the shade.  The bells of the leaders tinkled faintly, the ewes and the lambs were calling.  Beyond the big gate, the highroad was washed with the recent rains.  From the gate to the club was a matter of five miles, and the bays ate up the distance easily.

The people on the porch of the Country Club were very gay and gorgeous, so that Becky in her careless frock and shabby shoes would have been a pitiful contrast if she had cared in the least what the people on the porch thought of her.  But she did not care.  She nodded and smiled to a friend or two as the Judge stopped for a moment in the crush of motors.

George Dalton was on the porch.  When he saw Becky he leaned forward for a good look at her.

“Some girl,” he said to Waterman, as the surrey moved on, “the one in the sailor hat.  Who is she?”