IT was two evenings prior to the day for Miss Trevennon’s return to her home. January, with its multifarious engagements, had passed, and February was well advanced. It had been a very happy time to Margaret, and, now that her visit was almost at an end, she found herself much to reverie, and constantly falling into quiet fits of . There was much pleasant food for thought in looking back, but an instinct constantly warned her against looking forward.
On this particular evening, Miss Trevennon and Louis Gaston were alone. Cousin Eugenia had gone to her room, and General Gaston was out. Margaret had observed that she quite often found herself alone with Mr. Gaston lately, and she even fancied sometimes that Cousin Eugenia to have it so. She smiled to think of the multiplicity of Cousin Eugenia’s little manœuvres, and the book she had been reading fell to her lap. She glanced toward Louis, sitting some little distance off at the other side of the fire-place; but he was quite lost to view behind the opened sheet of the Evening Star. So Miss Trevennon fixed her eyes on the fire, and fell into a fit of musing.
She was looking her best to-night. There had been guests at dinner, and she was dressed accordingly. Black suited her better than anything else, and the costume of black silk and lace which she wore now was becoming. Her rounded, slender arms were bare, and a snowy patch of her lovely neck was visible above the lace of her square corsage. Her long black draperies fell richly away to one side, over the Turkey rug, and as she rested lightly on the angle of her little high heel, with one foot, in its dainty casing of black silk stocking and low-cut , lightly laid across the other, her , easy attitude and elegant toilet made her a striking figure, apart from the beauty of her face. Louis Gaston, who had noiselessly lowered his paper, took in every detail of face, figure, attitude and costume, with a sense of keen , and, as he continued to look, a sudden smile of merriment curved his lips. Miss Trevennon, looking up, met this smile, and smiled in answer to it.
“What is it?” she said. “What were you thinking of?”
“May I tell you?” he asked, still smiling.
“Yes; please do.”
“I was recalling the fact that, when you first arrived—before I had seen you—I used to speak of you to Eugenia as ‘The Importation.’ It is no wonder that I smile now at the remembrance.”
“It was very impertinent, undoubtedly,” said Margaret; “but I won’t refuse to forgive you, if you, in your turn, will agree to forgive me my impertinences, which have been many.”
“It would be necessary to recall them first,” he said, “and that I am unable to do.”
“I have been and critical and aggressive, and I have had no right to be any of these. I have magnified my own people , in talking to you, and yours. You mustn’t take me as a of Southern courtesy. Wait till you see my father. I’m a daughter.”
“I hope I may see him some time. Knowing you has made me wish to know your people better. If I ask you, some day, to let me come and make their acquaintance, what will you say?”
“Come, and welcome,” said Margaret, ; and then, as a consciousness of the warmth of her tone dawned upon her, she added: “We are a race, you know, and hold it a sacred duty to entertain strangers. But I fear you would find us disappointing in a great many ways. In so many points, and these very essential ones, we are inferior to you. If only we could both get rid of our prejudices! Just think what a people we might be, if we were kneaded together, each willing to assimilate what is best in the other! But I suppose that is a Utopian dream. As far as my small observation goes, it seems to me that we in the South see things on a broader basis, and that a gentleman’s claim to meet another gentleman on equal terms rests upon something higher and stronger than technicalities such as using printed visiting-cards, or calling a dress-coat ‘a swallow-tail,’ for instance!” she said, with twinkling eyes. “I know you’ve had those two scores against my compatriots on your mind. Now, haven’t you?”
“I will wipe them off instantly, if I have,” he said, laughing. “I feel disposed to-night. I think it is the of your departure that has me. I hope you are one little bit sorry to leave us. It would be but a small return for the regret we feel at parting from you.”
“I am sorry,” she said, with her eyes fixed on the fire—“very, very sorry.”
“Really?” he said quickly, not daring to give voice to the delight with which her uttered admission filled him.
“Yes, really. You have all been so good to me. I think General Gaston has even to forgive me for being a Southerner, since I could not possibly help it, which is a higher tribute than the regard of Cousin Eugenia and yourself, perhaps, as you had no prejudices to overcome.”
“You have paid me the greatest possible compliment,” said Louis. “I would rather you should say that than anything, almost. You must admit, however, that at one time you would n............