Marjorie acquiesced in the judgment. He was still young, hardly more than thirty-five, his weather-beaten face darkened to bronze from exposure. His features were large and clean cut with the power of decision written full upon them. A firm and forcible chin, with heavy lines playing about his mouth; eyes, large and black, that seemed to take toll of everything that transpired about them, suggested a man of extravagant energy, of violent and determined tenacity in the face of opposition. No one could look upon his imposing figure without calling to mind his martial achievements--the exploits of Canada, of the Mohawk, of Bemis Heights. "So this is your little friend," said he to Peggy, eyeing Marjorie as she made her presentation courtesy. He was now standing, though resting heavily on his cane with his left hand. "Mistress Allison, this privilege is a happy one. I understand that you are a violent little patriot." He smiled as he gently took her hand. "I am very pleased, Your Excellency. This is an occasion of rare delight to me." "And are you so intensely loyal? Your friends love you for your devotion, although I sometimes think that they miss General Howe," and he smiled in the direction of Peggy as he turned to her with this remark. "You know, General," Peggy was always ready with an artful reply, "I told you that I was neither the one nor the other; and that I wore black and white at the Mischienza, the colors now worn by our American soldiers in their cockades in token of the French and American Alliance." "So you did. I had almost forgotten." "And that there were some American gentlemen present, as well, although aged non-combatants," she continued with a subtle smile. "For which reason," he responded, "you would, I suppose, have it assume a less exclusive appearance." "Oh, no! I do not mean that. It was after all a very private affair, arranged solely in honor of General Howe." "Were some of these young ladies at the Mischienza? And who were they that rewarded the gallant knights?" he asked. "Well, the Chew girls, and my sisters, and Miss Franks. There was Miss White, and Miss Craig," she repeated the list one after the other as her eyes searched the company assembled in the hall. "And that girl in the corner, Miss Bond, and beyond her, her sister: then there was Miss Smith. Miss Bond I am told is engaged to one of your best Generals, Mr. John Robinson." "We are accustomed to call Mr. Robinson, General Robinson in the army," he ventured with a smile. She blushed slightly. "We call him Mr. Robinson in society, or sometimes Jack." "And who might have been your gallant knight? May I ask?" "The Honorable Captain Cathcart," was her proud reply. "And who has the good fortune to be your knight for this occasion?" he questioned, seeking in their hands the billet of the evening. "We do not know," Marjorie murmured. "We have not as yet met the Master of Ceremonies."