He did not unbend his dreamy gaze.  “You’re quite right.  The suggestions are stupid.”

Alma turned to Miss Woodburn:  “You hear?  Even when we speak of our own work.”

“Ah nevah hoad anything lahke it!”

“And the design itself?” Beaton persisted.

“Oh, I’m not an art editor,” Alma answered, with a laugh of exultant evasion.

A tall, dark, grave-looking man of fifty, with a swarthy face and iron-gray mustache and imperial and goatee, entered the room.  Beaton knew the type; he had been through Virginia sketching for one of the illustrated papers, and he had seen such men in Richmond.  Miss Woodburn hardly needed to say, “May Ah introduce you to mah fathaw, Co’nel Woodburn, Mr. Beaton?”

The men shook hands, and Colonel Woodburn said, in that soft, gentle, slow Southern voice without our Northern contractions:  “I am very glad to meet you, sir; happy to make yo’ acquaintance.  Do not move, madam,” he said to Mrs. Leighton, who made a deprecatory motion to let him pass to the chair beyond her; “I can find my way.”  He bowed a bulk that did not lend itself readily to the devotion, and picked up the ball of yarn she had let drop out of her lap in half rising.  “Yo’ worsteds, madam.”

“Yarn, yarn, Colonel Woodburn!” Alma shouted.  “You’re quite incorrigible.  A spade is a spade!”

“But sometimes it is a trump, my dear young lady,” said the Colonel, with unabated gallantry; “and when yo’ mothah uses yarn, it is worsteds.  But I respect worsteds even under the name of yarn:  our ladies—­my own mothah and sistahs—­had to knit the socks we wore—­all we could get in the woe.”

“Yes, and aftah the woe,” his daughter put in.  “The knitting has not stopped yet in some places.  Have you been much in the Soath, Mr. Beaton?”

Beaton explained just how much.

“Well, sir,” said the Colonel, “then you have seen a country making gigantic struggles to retrieve its losses, sir.  The South is advancing with enormous strides, sir.”

“Too fast for some of us to keep up,” said Miss Woodburn, in an audible aside.  “The pace in Charlottesboag is pofectly killing, and we had to drop oat into a slow place like New York.”

“The progress in the South is material now,” said the Colonel; “and those of us whose interests are in another direction find ourselves—­isolated —­isolated, sir.  The intellectual centres are still in the No’th, sir; the great cities draw the mental activity of the country to them, sir.  Necessarily New York is the metropolis.”

“Oh, everything comes here,” said Beaton, impatient of the elder’s ponderosity.  Another sort of man would have sympathized with the Southerner’s willingness to talk of himself, and led him on to speak of his plans and ideals.  But the sort of man that Beaton was could not do this; he put up the dummy into the wrapper he had let drop on the floor beside him, and tied it round with string while Colonel Woodburn was talking.  He got to his feet with the words he spoke and offered Mrs. Leighton his hand.