“Thank you,” answered Winthrop as they entered the gate and passed into the noonday twilight of the oleander path. “But that is a privilege I don’t deserve, at all events, not yet. Perhaps some day, maybe the day I dance at your wedding, I’ll accept the honor.” “Just see how many, many roses are out!” cried Holly. They went on to the house in silence. Dinner was a pleasanter meal for Winthrop than breakfast had been, principally because the Major and a Miss Virginia Parish, a maiden lady of uncertain age and much charm of manners, were present. The Major observed and resented Julian’s polite disregard of Winthrop and after dinner took him to task for it. The ladies were in the parlor, Winthrop had gone up-stairs to get some cigars, and the Major and Julian were at the end of the porch. It was perhaps unfortunate that Winthrop should have been forced to overhear a part of the conversation under his window. “You don’t treat the gentleman with common civility,” remonstrated the Major, warmly. “I am not aware that I have been discourteous to him,” responded Julian in his drawling voice. The Major spluttered. “Gad, sir, what do you mean by discourteous? You can’t turn your back on a man at his own table without being discourteous! Confound it, sir, remember that you’re under his roof!” “I do remember it,” answered Julian quickly. “I’m not likely to forget it, sir. But how did it become his roof? How did he get hold of it? Some damned Yankee trick, I’ll wager; stole it, as like as not!” “Tut, tut, sir! What language is that, Julian? Mr. Winthrop――――” But Winthrop waited to hear no more. With the cigars he joined them on the porch, finding the Major very red of face and looking somewhat like an insulted turkey-cock, and Julian with a sombre sneer on his dark face. Julian declined the proffered cigar and presently left the others alone, taking himself off in search of Holly. The Major waved a hand after him, and scowled angrily. “Just like his father,” he grunted. “Hot-headed, stubborn, badly balanced, handsome as the devil and bound to come just such a cropper in the end.” “You mean that his father was unfortunate?” asked Winthrop idly, as he lighted his cigar. “Shot himself for a woman, sir. Most nonsensical proceeding I ever heard of. The woman wasn’t worth it, sir.” “They seldom are,” commented Winthrop, gravely, “in the opinion of others.” “She was married,” continued the Major, unheeding the remark, “and had children; fine little tots they were, too. Husband was good as gold to her. But she had to have Fernald Wayne to satisfy her damned vanity. I beg your pardon, Mr. Winthrop, but I have no patience with that sort of women, sir!” “You don’t understand them.” “I don’t want to, sir.” “You couldn’t if you did,” replied Winthrop. The Major shot a puzzled glance at him, rolling his unlighted cigar swiftly around in the corner of his mouth. Then he deluged the Baltimore Bell with tobacco-juice and went on: