The culmination of Hargraves’s audacious imitation took place in the third act.  The scene is where Colonel Calhoun entertains a few of the neighbouring planters in his “den.”

Standing at a table in the centre of the stage, with his friends grouped about him, he delivers that inimitable, rambling, character monologue so famous in “A Magnolia Flower,” at the same time that he deftly makes juleps for the party.

Major Talbot, sitting quietly, but white with indignation, heard his best stories retold, his pet theories and hobbies advanced and expanded, and the dream of the “Anecdotes and Reminiscences” served, exaggerated and garbled.  His favourite narrative—­that of his duel with Rathbone Culbertson—­was not omitted, and it was delivered with more fire, egotism, and gusto than the major himself put into it.

The monologue concluded with a quaint, delicious, witty little lecture on the art of concocting a julep, illustrated by the act.  Here Major Talbot’s delicate but showy science was reproduced to a hair’s breadth—­from his dainty handling of the fragrant weed—­“the one-thousandth part of a grain too much pressure, gentlemen, and you extract the bitterness, instead of the aroma, of this heaven-bestowed plant”—­to his solicitous selection of the oaten straws.

At the close of the scene the audience raised a tumultuous roar of appreciation.  The portrayal of the type was so exact, so sure and thorough, that the leading characters in the play were forgotten.  After repeated calls, Hargraves came before the curtain and bowed, his rather boyish face bright and flushed with the knowledge of success.

At last Miss Lydia turned and looked at the major.  His thin nostrils were working like the gills of a fish.  He laid both shaking hands upon the arms of his chair to rise.

“We will go, Lydia,” he said chokingly.  “This is an abominable—­desecration.”

Before he could rise, she pulled him back into his seat.  “We will stay it out,” she declared.  “Do you want to advertise the copy by exhibiting the original coat?” So they remained to the end.

Hargraves’s success must have kept him up late that night, for neither at the breakfast nor at the dinner table did he appear.

About three in the afternoon he tapped at the door of Major Talbot’s study.  The major opened it, and Hargraves walked in with his hands full of the morning papers—­too full of his triumph to notice anything unusual in the major’s demeanour.

“I put it all over ’em last night, major,” he began exultantly.  “I had my inning, and, I think, scored.  Here’s what the Post says: 

His conception and portrayal of the old-time Southern colonel, with his absurd grandiloquence, his eccentric garb, his quaint idioms and phrases, his moth-eaten pride of family, and his really kind heart, fastidious sense of honour, and lovable simplicity, is the best delineation of a character role on the boards to-day.  The coat worn by Colonel Calhoun is itself nothing less than an evolution of genius.  Mr. Hargraves has captured his public.

“How does that sound, major, for a first nighter?”