“I’d say you are a clever boy to have found me out.”
A diversion was caused by the appearance of Nero in search of them. He was a huge creature with black curly hair and a benign expression. This successor to the original Nero was himself growing old and heavy but was still active and ramped about the children in joy. They romped with him. They and Madigan fell behind.
“These young ’uns of mine,” said Captain Whiteoak, “are getting no proper discipline. Thank goodness, they’ll soon be going away to school.”
“Better send them to France,” said Curtis Sinclair. “That’s where I was educated.”
“You speak French then?”
“I do.”
“I have a French Canadian working for me. He’d be delighted if you spoke to him in his native tongue. He is quite a good woodcarver.”
They were now rejoined by the children and Nero, and all entered the house, which was suffused by the radiance of sunset. Philip went to the large bedroom, opening into the hall, which he shared with Adeline. He found her brushing her long hair. Always he admired her hair, which was rather more red than a glossy ripe chestnut. He did not tell her so, for she was vain enough already, but he asked, “What are you wearing for dinner?”
“This green brocade.”
“Dressing for dinner,” he said, resting his hands on the footboard of the painted leather bed that showed a gorgeous assembly of flowers and fruit, among which the mischievous faces of monkeys peered. This bed they had brought with them from India, also the gaily plumaged parrot that perched on the headboard. “This dressing for dinner,” he repeated, for he was sure she had not heard him with all that hair over her ears, “is a confounded nuisance. Why should a country gentleman dress for dinner?”
She heard him and said, “Wouldn’t it be nice if you came to dinner smelling of the stable? No — we do right to put our best foot foremost. The Sinclairs appreciate it. That lovely dress she wore last night she bought in Paris before the war. As for her other clothes, she tells me they are practically in rags — her shoes with holes in them.”
“Why don’t you give her a pair of yours?”
“Mine! Haven’t you noticed how tiny her feet are?”
He hadn’t noticed, he said.
She was delighted. She put both arms about his neck and kissed him. “You darling!” she cried.
He could not know why he had pleased her and he did not try to guess. She went on to say, “It is a great grief to Lucy that she has no children. She shed tears over it today, even though, as she says, they are ruined — their estates taken by the Yankees, so they would have nothing to leave their children.”
“It’s as well they have none,” said Philip.
“You mean because of his deformity. But have you noticed what beautiful small hands he has?”
“Don’t you get sweet on him, Adeline. I won’t have it.”
Philip removed his outer garments and, in his underclothes, planted himself in front of the marble-topped washing stand. The marble was glossy black but the large ewer, basin, soap dish, and slop bowl were cream-coloured with a design of rich crimson roses. Philip poured water into the basin, lathered well his hands with Adeline’s Cashmere Bouquet soap, washed his face and neck. He emerged handsome and ruddy, and soon was dressed and prepared to go to the dining room.
Descending the stairway were their visitors, the Sinclairs, she holding up her velvet train. They proceeded to the dining room where windows stood open to the warm breeze. There was not on the table the variety of food to which these Southerners were used, but the Scotch broth, the roast duck with apple sauce, the new potatoes, the fresh garden peas, and asparagus were excellent. The raspberry tart, with thick Jersey cream, was pronounced delicious. The coffee the Sinclairs found atrocious but drank it with a smile.
Also present at this dinner were the Laceys. He was a retired British rear-admiral but was always called Admiral. Though their means were slender, their house small, they behaved as they felt became their station. Both were polite, though a little standoffish. Both were short, plump, blond, and had what might be called “pretty faces.” They bore a striking resemblance to each other, though they were of no blood relationship. They had at the first been attracted by this resemblance and were pleased when their children were the image of them.
Philip Whiteoak had taken care to make certain, before he invited them, where lay the sympathies of the Laceys. After his first glass of wine Admiral Lacey said in a warm undertone to Lucy Sinclair, “As I live, madam, I’ve always detested the Yankees.”
She answered, in her soft Southern tones, “Oh, Admiral, I could embrace you for that!”
Mrs. Lacey overheard. Her shock was reflected in the deeper pink of her face, her mouth which took on the form of an O. The Admiral beamed delightedly, without regard to his wife’s feelings. He repeated, “Always detested ’em.”
“They are getting rich out of this war, while we lose everything,” said Lucy Sinclair.
Curtis Sinclair thought the talk should be changed to a lighter subject, for he feared that his wife was about to burst into tears. He therefore praised the roast duckling. “I must tell you,” he said, “that, shortly before we left Richmond, Mrs. Sinclair paid seventy-five dollars for a turkey.”
There were general comments of amazement, then Adeline cried, “How I should love to see Richmond! The very name captivates me. It’s so romantic, so civilized, while here we are in the wilds.”
“But you have everything,” said Lucy Sinclair. “Beautiful furniture, exquisite linen, superb silver! I cannot tell you how surprised we were to find it so, for we had pictured log cabins — with Indians and wolves prowling about.”
The Whiteoaks were uncertain whether to be pleased or not. Philip said, “You’d have to go far North or West to find such conditions.”
Lucius Madigan remarked, from the far end of the table where he sat with his three pupils:
“If you want to see wildness, Mrs. Sinclair, you should go to Ireland.”
“We have many soldiers of Irish antecedents in our Carolinian army,” she said, “and they are the best fighters of all.”
“My grandfather, the Marquis of Killiekeggan,” said Adeline, “was a great fighter. In his day he fought seven duels.”
“A Marquis,” Lucy Sinclair breathed, wide-eyed. “Did you say your grandfather was a Marquis?”
“Indeed he was,” said Adeline, “and a hard drinker, even for an Irish Marquis.”
Nicholas spoke up. “It’s a wonder that Mamma hadn’t told you already about her grandfather, the Marquis. Usually she tells about him at the start.”
Adeline might well have been angry. On the contrary she looked pleased and joined in the laughter.
Little Ernest felt that he had been long enough in obscurity and now remarked in his treble voice, “Before our visitors came we ate dinner at noon and supper at night. Why?”
“Because it’s more stylish, silly,” said Nicholas.
Adeline threw her sons a baleful glance. “Any more insolence from you two,” she said, “and you leave the table.”
Philip remarked tranquilly, “At Jalna we lead the life of country people. In fact, it is necessary in this strenuous part of the world.”
Madigan appeared to be cherishing a secret joke. He shook with silent laughter, but no one paid any attention to him. Admiral Lacey told stories of the early days of his settling in Canada. He never tired of these reminiscences or of the sound of his