Onslow made a snatch at it, but Kenrick warded off his grip, and, folding and returning the flag to the inner pocket of his vest, calmly took his seat as if nothing had happened. All this while Vance had been gazing on Kenrick intently, as if wrestling in thought with some inexplicable mystery. “Strange!” he murmured. “The very counterpart of my own person as I was at twenty-three! My very features! My very figure! The very color of my hair! And then,—what my mother often told me was a Carteret peculiarity,—when he smiles, that fan-like radiation of fine wrinkles under the temples from the outer corner of the eye! What does it all mean? I know of no relation of the name of Kenrick.” “I shall not sit at table with a traitor,” cried Onslow. “Then keep standing all the time,” said Kenrick. “Nonsense! I thought we were all philosophers in this company,” interposed Robson, who, having had large commercial dealings with the elder Kenrick, was in no mood to see the son harmed. “Sit down, Onslow! Wigman, keep your seat. Now, waiter, green glasses all round, and a bottle of that sparkling Moselle. They’ll know at the bar what I mean.” Onslow resumed his seat. Wigman stiffened himself up and drew nearer to the table, fired at the prospect of a fresh bottle. At this juncture Mr. George Sanderson, a Northern man with Southern principles, in person short, vulgar, and flashily dressed, the very _beau ideal_ of a bar-room rowdy, having heard the clink of glasses, and sighted from the corridor an array of bottles, was seized with one of his half-hourly attacks of thirstiness, and entered to join the party, although Wigman was the only one he knew. The latter introduced him to the rest. Robson uncorked the Moselle, and asked, “Now that Sumter has fallen, what’s next on the programme?” “Washington must be taken,” said Sanderson. “We must winter in Philadelphia,” said Wigman. “In what capacity? As conquerors or as captives?” said Kenrick. “Is the gentleman at all shaky?” asked Sanderson. “He has been shamming Abolitionism,” replied Onslow. “He damns slavery,” cried the indignant Wigman. “He’s sure to go to hell for that,” said Robson; “intercession can’t save him. He has committed the unpardonable sin. The Rev. Dr. Palmer has recently made researches in theology which satisfy himself and me and the rest of the saints, that the sin against the Holy Ghost is in truth nothing less than to be an Abolitionist.” “What is your private opinion of the Yankees, Mr. Sanderson?” asked Kenrick. “Do you think they’ll fight?” “No, sir-r-r. Fifty thousand Confederates could walk through the Northern States, and plant their colors on every State capital north of Mason and Dixon’s line. They could whip any army the Yankees could bring against them.” “Then you think the Yankees are cowards, eh?” “Compared with the Southerners,—yes!” said Sanderson, holding up his glass for the waiter to refill.