“All I know about him,” resumed Mrs. Atkins, continuing her notice of the expected guest, “is what your father said in the note he sent up to the house. Namely, that he belongs to a great cotton-house in New Orleans, with which your father deals largely, and that he owns a plantation, and that he is a splendid fellow, and a real Southern gentleman, and one of the chivalry, and all that, and that we must have an excellent dinner, and treat him with true Northern hospitality, and so forth. All which you saw in the note, and really I don’t know any more about him. But of course he is a perfect gentleman, for all the Southern gentlemen are perfect gentlemen, and they are as gallant and chivalrous as gentlemen can be, and as _distingué_ as—as Count Blomanosoff, and I’m sure nothing could be more _distingué_ than Count Blomanosoff, you know.” To compare anybody to the horrent-whiskered Russ who had dined with the Atkinses on his way to Washington, was the highest compliment Mrs. Atkins could pay. Count Blomanosoff was the god of her idolatry. “Dear me, I wish he would come!” exclaimed Julia, fidgeting in her chair. As if in response to her wish, and before her mother could again entreat her to show her breeding, the door-bell rang. “Here he is, be Jove!” cried Thomas, amidst a general flutter and movement. Anxious silence succeeded, while Michael was shuffling to the door. Presently, the noise of entering feet, a full, decisive voice saying something, and a soft, smooth, courteous voice answering; then, after a moment’s pause, the drawing-room door swung open, and behind the sturdy form of Mr. Lemuel Atkins, the enraptured ladies saw the rich brunette complexion, the long waven hair and thick moustache, and the lordly figure of their Southern guest. At the first glance they were enchanted. So handsome, so gallant, so chivalrous! Mrs. Atkins rose with a sweeping rustle of flounces, and stepped forward; and there was a general rustle of rising and moving as the two entered. “Here we are,” cried Mr. Atkins, in his rotund, energetic voice, striding in as he spoke, with a smile on his hard visage, and stepping aside to pause and turn with an extended hand toward his guest. “Mr. Lafitte, I have the honor to present you to my wife. My love, Mr. Lafitte, of Louisiana.” Mrs. Atkins curtseyed low as she slid forward with outstretched hand, her waxen face slightly colored, and wreathed with smiles. “I am most happy to see you, Mr. Lafitte,” she softly murmured, “and I am delighted to welcome you to Boston.” “Madam, I am charmed with the honor you do me,” courteously returned the Southerner, bowing low with her hand in his, and serenely smiling. “And this is my eldest daughter, sir,” continued the merchant. “Caroline, Mr. Lafitte.”