The major drew a small envelope from his upper vest pocket and tossed it on the table.

“Perhaps it was injudicious,” he said mildly, “but the sum was so merely nominal that I bought tickets to the theatre to-night.  It’s a new war drama, Lydia.  I thought you would be pleased to witness its first production in Washington.  I am told that the South has very fair treatment in the play.  I confess I should like to see the performance myself.”

Miss Lydia threw up her hands in silent despair.

Still, as the tickets were bought, they might as well be used.  So that evening, as they sat in the theatre listening to the lively overture, even Miss Lydia was minded to relegate their troubles, for the hour, to second place.  The major, in spotless linen, with his extraordinary coat showing only where it was closely buttoned, and his white hair smoothly roached, looked really fine and distinguished.  The curtain went up on the first act of “A Magnolia Flower,” revealing a typical Southern plantation scene.  Major Talbot betrayed some interest.

“Oh, see!” exclaimed Miss Lydia, nudging his arm, and pointing to her programme.

The major put on his glasses and read the line in the cast of characters that her finger indicated.

   Col.  Webster Calhoun . . . .  H. Hopkins Hargraves.

“It’s our Mr. Hargraves,” said Miss Lydia.  “It must be his first appearance in what he calls ‘the legitimate.’  I’m so glad for him.”

Not until the second act did Col.  Webster Calhoun appear upon the stage.  When he made his entry Major Talbot gave an audible sniff, glared at him, and seemed to freeze solid.  Miss Lydia uttered a little, ambiguous squeak and crumpled her programme in her hand.  For Colonel Calhoun was made up as nearly resembling Major Talbot as one pea does another.  The long, thin white hair, curly at the ends, the aristocratic beak of a nose, the crumpled, wide, ravelling shirt front, the string tie, with the bow nearly under one ear, were almost exactly duplicated.  And then, to clinch the imitation, he wore the twin to the major’s supposed to be unparalleled coat.  High-collared, baggy, empire-waisted, ample-skirted, hanging a foot lower in front than behind, the garment could have been designed from no other pattern.  From then on, the major and Miss Lydia sat bewitched, and saw the counterfeit presentment of a haughty Talbot “dragged,” as the major afterward expressed it, “through the slanderous mire of a corrupt stage.”

Mr. Hargraves had used his opportunities well.  He had caught the major’s little idiosyncrasies of speech, accent, and intonation and his pompous courtliness to perfection—­exaggerating all to the purposes of the stage.  When he performed that marvellous bow that the major fondly imagined to be the pink of all salutations, the audience sent forth a sudden round of hearty applause.

Miss Lydia sat immovable, not daring to glance toward her father.  Sometimes her hand next to him would be laid against her cheek, as if to conceal the smile which, in spite of her disapproval, she could not entirely suppress.