With a graceful sweep she gathered it up and we moved on to the breakfast-room and the elegantly appointed table, with damask and cut glass and silver and flowers and two servants—a man and a maid—to serve us. Mr. McPherson was in a joking mood, and when the soup was brought in, said to Irene: “I hope you like green turtle, Miss Burdick? I had to chance it, as I didn’t know your taste. Neither did Rex when I asked him. But he’ll improve; he’ll know it by and by.” Pleased with his own joke the old man shut one of his eyes and with the other winked at Irene, whose blushes were genuine and whose face for a moment was scarlet, for she felt the bad taste of the insinuation and knew that Reginald was displeased. If there was one soup more than another which she detested it was green turtle, but she declared that nothing could have suited her better, while taking it down in gulps, each one of which nauseated her frightfully. After this the dinner proceeded quietly and we were again upon the piazza, where Irene presided at the tea-table and poured coffee, which Reginald and Tom handed to us, and all the time Rena was chafing for a sight of the pictures, fearing it might get too late to see them distinctly. It was near sunset when Tom, who knew Rena’s anxiety, said to our host: “Excuse me, Mr. McPherson. It is delightful out here, but the young ladies want to see Nannie.” “Why, yes, bless my soul!” Mr. McPherson exclaimed, starting up. “I came near forgetting it, I am enjoying myself so well. Come this way. Rex, I’ll let you have Miss Burdick a while.” Rex bowed and gave Irene his arm, thinking as he did what a fine-looking woman she was, but wishing she were not quite so tall and wondering if she wouldn’t look shorter if she did not wear her hair coiled in so many braids around her head like a coronet, which added to her height. He had noticed her hair when he first saw her, and thought of it again while taking his coffee, wondering in a vague kind of way, as he had once before, how long and thick it was and if it did not take her more time to arrange it than it took Rena to twist her brown tresses into the flat knot low in her neck, which he liked better than Irene’s crown. They were now in the drawing-room, standing before the three portraits ranged side by side on the wall, Nannie between the two Mrs. McPherson’s, with their caps and puffs of hair. Nannie’s hair was in curls, as she wore it when Sandy first knew her, and in her low-necked dress and short sleeves she looked as if she might have been the daughter of either of the prim ladies beside her. “This is Nannie,” Mr. McPherson said, addressing himself to Irene, “and this Rex’s great-grandmother, Sandy’s first wife, you know, and this your great-grandmother, Sandy’s second wife.”