Her long, rebellious reveries in solitude had prepared her for this hour, and her proud, excited spirit surprised her by the intensity of its passionate revolt.  Not as a timid, shrinking maiden did she look at her cousin and his men feasting on the piazza.  She glanced at him, then through the open windows at their burly forms, as one might face a menace which brought no thought of yielding.

The family resemblance between Whately and herself was strong.  He had her blue eyes, but they were smaller than hers, and his expression was bold, verging toward recklessness.  Her look was steady and her lips compressed into accord with the firm little chin.

Mrs. Baron’s ideas of decorum soon brought temporary relief.  She also saw that her nephew was becoming too excited to make a good impression, so she said, “Louise, you may now retire, and I trust that you will waken tomorrow to the truth that your natural guardians can best direct your thoughts and actions.”

Whately was about to rise in order to bid an affectionate good-night, but the girl almost fled from the room.  In the hall she met Chunk, who whispered, “Linkum man gittin’ peart, Miss Lou.”

“She’ll be over her tantrum by morning,” said Mr. Baron in an apologetic tone.  “Perhaps we’ll have to humor her more in little things.”

“That’s just where the trouble lies, uncle.  You and aunt have tried to make her feel and act as if as old as yourselves.  She’s no longer a child; neither is she exactly a woman.  All young creatures at her age are skittish.  Bless you, she wouldn’t be a Baron if she hadn’t lots of red, warm blood.  So much the better.  When I’ve married her she’ll settle down like other Southern girls.”

“I think we had better discuss these matters more privately, nephew,” said Mrs. Baron.

“Beg pardon, I reckon we had, aunt.  My advice, however, is that we act first and discuss afterward.”

“We’ll talk it over to-morrow, nephew,” said Mr. Baron.  “Of course as guardian I must adopt the best and safest plan.”

Chunk’s ears were long if he was short, and in waiting on a soldier near the window he caught the purport of this conversation.

CHAPTER V

WHATELY’S IDEA OF COURTSHIP

When waiting on the table, Zany either stood like an image carved out of black walnut or moved with the angular promptness of an automaton when a spring is touched.  Only the quick roll of her eyes indicated how observant she was.  If, however, she met Chunk in the hall, or anywhere away from observation, she never lost the opportunity to torment him.  A queer grimace, a surprised stare, an exasperating derisive giggle, were her only acknowledgments of his amorous attentions.  “Ef I doesn’t git eben wid dat niggah, den I eat a mule,” he muttered more than once.