“Well, she is a most charming old lady; just as entertaining!  I must introduce you.  But this is history.  Now look!  There’s the belle of Mobile, that tall, stately brunette.  And that superb figure, you wouldn’t guess she is the belle of Selma.  There is a fascinating girl.  What a mixture of languor and vivacity!  Creole, you know; full blood.  She is the belle of New Orleans—­or one of them.  Oh! do you see that Paris dress?  I must look at it again when it comes around; she carries it well, too—­belle of Richmond.  And, see there; there’s one of the prettiest girls in the South—­belle of Macon.  And that handsome woman —­Nashville?—­Louisville?  See, that’s the new-comer from Ohio.”  And so the procession went on, and the enumeration—­belle of Montgomery, belle of Augusta, belle of Charleston, belle of Savannah, belle of Atlanta —­always the belle of some place.

“No, I don’t expect you to say that these are prettier than Northern women; but just between friends, Mr. King, don’t you think the North might make a little more of their beautiful women?  Yes, you are right; she is handsome” (King was bowing to Irene, who was on the arm of Mr. Meigs), “and has something besides beauty.  I see what you mean” (King had not intimated that he meant anything), “but don’t you dare to say it.”

“Oh, I’m quite subdued.”

“I wouldn’t trust you.  I suppose you Yankees cannot help your critical spirit.”

“Critical?  Why, I’ve heard more criticism in the last half-hour from these spectators than in a year before.  And—­I wonder if you will let me say it?”

“Say on.”

“Seems to me that the chief topic here is physical beauty—­about the shape, the style, the dress, of women, and whether this or that one is well made and handsome.”

“Well, suppose beauty is worshiped in the South—­we worship what we have; we haven’t much money now, you know.  Would you mind my saying that Mr. Meigs is a very presentable man?”

“You may say what you like about Mr. Meigs.”

“That’s the reason I took him away this morning.”

“Thank you.”

“He is full of information, and so unobtrusive—­”

“I hadn’t noticed that.”

“And I think he ought to be encouraged.  I’ll tell you what you ought to do, Mr. King:  you ought to give a german.  If you do not, I shall put Mr. Meigs up to it—­it is the thing to do here.”

“Mr. Meigs give a german!”—­[Dance, cotillion—­always lively.  D.W.]

“Why not?  You see that old beau there, the one smiling and bending towards her as he walks with the belle of Macon?  He does not look any older than Mr. Meigs.  He has been coming here for fifty years; he owns up to sixty-five and the Mexican war; it’s my firm belief that he was out in 1812.  Well, he has led the german here for years.  You will find Colonel Fane in the ballroom every night.  Yes, I shall speak to Mr. Meigs.”

The room was thinning out.  King found himself in front of a row of dowagers, whose tongues were still going about the departing beauties.  “No mercy there,” he heard a lady say to her companion; “that’s a jury for conviction every time.”  What confidential communication Mrs. Farquhar made to Mr. Meigs, King never knew, but he took advantage of the diversion in his favor to lead Miss Benson off to the ballroom.