“My dear fellow,” replied Colonel Tremaine, impressively raising one of the great old cut-glass decanters, “this beverage is raspberry vinegar.” Here the Colonel gave a snort of contempt. “I can no longer live for my country, because Dr. Carey says that I am too old to march or fight; but I can die for her--yea, die daily, as St. Paul said, drinking raspberry vinegar. The ladies swear it is good for the complexion. I am glad it is good for something.” “You know, my love,” replied Mrs. Tremaine, reproachfully, from the head of the table, “that my raspberry wine is considered the best in the county and is made from my great-grandmother’s recipe.” Colonel Tremaine replied by a quotation from Horace, and Colonel Gratiot, always gallant, declared that he believed Falernian to be infernal stuff, not half as good as the wine of Mrs. Tremaine’s manufacture. Everybody called Colonel Gratiot “Mr. Gratiot” except Hector, who pointedly called him “Kun’l” every two minutes. After dinner, when the gentlemen retired to smoke upon the great pillared portico facing the river, Colonel Gratiot was so enthusiastic over the ladies of the party that he unbosomed himself to Lyddon in the temporary absence of Colonel Tremaine. “By Jove, sir! I’m not surprised after seeing Mrs. Tremaine and Madame Le Noir--Lord! those two women ought always to be seen together, they set each other off so well: Mrs. Neville Tremaine so fair, so tall, the color coming and going in her face, and her eyes three shades in a minute, ready to laugh or to weep, and with a heart as brave as Trojan Hector’s; and Madame Le Noir with eyes and hair so black, and with everything, from the crown of her head to the sole of her little foot, finished and polished to the last degree. Nothing on earth could make that woman weep unless she wished.” Lyddon agreed with all of this and perceived that Colonel Gratiot was an authority upon the fair sex. Madame Isabey, as usual, did not appear when guests were present, as that would necessitate a toilet beyond a peignoir. About five o’clock in the afternoon, Adrienne having taken her siesta and reappeared, Angela proposed that they should take a walk. Neither was ever quite at ease when alone with the other, but, both being gentlewomen, they maintained every outward form of extreme politeness. “Let us walk in the garden,” said Adrienne. “I cannot, like you, take those long tramps through the woods. You must remember that I am town-bred.” Angela felt a secret dislike to walking up and down the well-known garden path with Adrienne and sitting together upon the bench under the old brick wall. That spot she felt to be consecrated, in a way, to her inmost thoughts and feelings, and with Adrienne she never spoke of inward things. Nevertheless she made no objection, and the two walked up and down in the waning summer afternoon as the shadows grew long on the green lawn and the river changed from green and silver to red and purple in the glowing sunset.