Even our cats adored them. The Black family could
spot a Confederate veteran as far off as the front gate, and would
rush wildly to meet him, rubbing and roaching and purring in and out
of his old legs. The Author insisted that their passion for U.C.V.'s
was an inherited trait with our cats, and that we ourselves were
merely acquired characteristics.
In April, just before Miss Emmeline was to return to Boston, and the
Englishman and his daughter were to go back home, Alicia and I
decided to give a farewell dance. It was to be in costume.
Hyndsville was pleasantly excited. Never had there been such
rummaging of attics, such searchings of old trunks! We rummaged our
attic, too. I selected a yellow brocade trimmed with seed-pearls and
cascades of lace, and Alicia chose a skimpy blue satin frock with a
round neck, an upstanding lace collar, and absurd little puffed
sleeves. The Englishman was a Puritan, his daughter a Quakeress,
Mr. Johnson a Huguenot Lover, Miss Emmeline a Colonial Lady, Doctor
Geddes a bearded and belted Boyar, and The Author a painfully
realistic Mephistopheles, his eyebrows corked upward and his
mustache waxed into points.
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