“O never! never!” returned Onslow, with the emphasis of sincerity in his tone. “You misjudge the character of the lady. She’s a friend of Miss Tremaine,—is now passing a few days with her at the St. Charles. A lady wholly respectable. Miss Perdita Brown of St. Louis! That rascally photographer ought to be whipped for making money out of her beautiful picture.” “Has she admirers in her train?” asked Ratcliff. “I know of but one beside myself.” “Indeed! And who is he?” “Charles Kenrick has called on her with me.” “By the way, Wigman tells me that Charles insulted the flag the other day.” “Poh! Wigman was so drunk he couldn’t distinguish jest from earnest.” “So Robson told me. But touching this Miss Brown,—is she as pretty as her photograph would declare?” “It hardly does her justice. But her sweet face is the least of her charms. She talks well,—sings well,—plays well,—and, young as she is, has the bearing, the dignity, the grace, of the consummate lady.” Here there was another rustling, as if the grape-vine were pulled. Ratcliff started, went to the window, looked out, but, seeing nothing, remarked, “The wind must be rising,” and returned to his seat. “I’ve omitted,” said he, “to ask after your family; are they well?” “Yes; they were in Austin when I heard from them last. My father, I grieve to say, goes with Hamilton and his set in opposition to the Southern movement. My brother, William Temple, is equally infatuated. My mother and sister of course acquiesce. So I’m the only faithful one of my family.” “You deserve a colonelcy for that.” “Thank you. Is your clock right?” “Yes.” “Then I must go. I’ve an engagement.” “Sorry for it. Beware of Miss Brown. This is the day of Mars, not Venus. Good by.” When Onslow had gone, Ratcliff sat five minutes as if meditating on some plan. Then, drawing forth a pocket-book, he took out an envelope,—wrote on it,—reflected,—and wrote again. When he had finished, he ordered the carriage to be brought to the door. As he was passing through the hall, Madame Volney, from the stairs, asked where he was going. “To the St. Charles, on political business.” “Don’t be out late, dear,” said Madame. “Let me see how you look. Your neck-tie is out of place. Let me fix it. There! And your vest needs buttoning. So!” And as her delicate hands passed around his person, they slid unperceived into a side-pocket of his coat, and drew forth what he had just deposited there. “Bother! That will do, Josephine,” grumbled Ratcliff. She released him with a kiss. He descended the marble steps of the house, entered a carriage, and drove off.