The Dugarres were famous for their hospitality, and entertained guests from all parts of the Union. An unusually large party lounged on the shady piazza one hot, languid summer afternoon, representing Charleston, Atlanta, and even New York, not to speak of the fair Savannahians, and of Valentine Dugarre, all the way from Brazil. It was too warm for exertion; all quiet amusements had flagged, and even conversation had become a stupid effort, when Edward Dugarre brought out a dusty old _Century_ and read Stedman’s poem "Hebe." It roused both the lazy and the meditative to lively comments, all agreeing in their condemnation of Fiorina’s revenge, so summary and so terrible. Did I say all? There was one exception—Valentine Dugarre. But some of them looked upon her as half savage, because of her Brazilian birth and her perfectly frank way of speaking out her thoughts and feelings. The Dugarres themselves were half afraid of her and rejoiced when she became engaged to Frank Black, a handsome young Savannahian of good family but of rather weak, unstable nature. She had been sent up to them to have an American finish put to her education and manners; but alien blood flowed in her veins, and she had been worshiped and spoiled in her own home until she had become as imperious and exacting as princesses are supposed to be. She could do the rashest, most unheard-of things when enraged, or when in a generous mood—such, for instance, as taking a ring from her finger and giving it to a ragged beggar when he asked her for five cents. When scolded for it by her shocked aunt she impatiently exclaimed: "Can’t you see that he is starving? What real need have I for the thing? Let it go, if it can be the means of bringing him food and clothing. I do not care to be rich, to wear jewels, while others are perishing with hunger." And that summer afternoon she sat among those people, listening in silence to all their comments, and waiting until the last to have her say about the matter. She was an imperial-looking girl, dark, but with a faint, delicate bloom on her cheeks, and the color of a rose on her lips. Her eyes were not black but golden-brown, and her hair had the texture of silk. Her very dress seemed to set her apart from the other women, who clothed themselves according to the decrees of fashion. It was fine-woven yellow linen, its full loose folds girdled in about the waist with a broad band of silver, its sleeves open half way up, revealing beautiful rounded arms. She set at open defiance all forms and rules, and laughed contemptuously at the conventionalities of society. "I quite approve of Fiorina’s revenge," she said at last, "only I would have killed the woman also;" then she smiled with scornful contempt to see the blood forsaking Helen Lawrence’s face. "Why do you turn pale, Miss Lawrence?" she asked, leaning toward her with a gleam of mockery in her eyes.