Masters called "daughter." Boone had
for girls the fine disdain of his age, and this one he guessed to be
some four or five years younger than himself. But she was unlike any
other he had ever seen, and it puzzled him that so much attention should
be squandered on a "gal-child," though he acknowledged to himself--"but
she's plum purty." He went by with a casual glance and a high chin, but
in his brain whirled many puzzling thoughts, springing from a first
glimpse of wealth.

CHAPTER VII

It was Christmas eve night, and General Basil Prince, who had hurriedly
changed to evening dress after his arrival by a late train, halted for a
moment at the stairhead to look down. On his distinguished face played a
quiet smile. In these rapidly changing times, pride of lineage and
deference for tradition were things less openly voiced than in other
days which he could remember.

Probably that was as it should be, he reflected, yet an elderly fellow
might enjoy the fragrance of old lavender or the bouquet of memory's
vintage.

When he came here to the country house of his friend Wallifarro, it
seemed to him that he stepped back into those days when gracious
ceremonies held and dancers trod the measured figures of the minuet.

He wondered if in many places one could find just such another coterie
of intimates as the little group of older men who gathered here: men who
had been boyhood comrades in the Orphan Brigade, or Morgan's Cavalry:
men who had, since the reconstruction, distinguished themselves in
civilian life, weaving into a new pattern the regathered threads of
fortune.

Gazing down upon the broad hall, with the parquetry of its floors
cleared for dancing, Basil Prince warmed to a glow of pride in these
people who were his people. Aristocracies had risen and tottered since
history had kept its score, but here, surviving all change, remained a
simple graciousness, and a stamina of great heartedness like that which
royal breeding had instilled into those satin-coated horses out there in
their barns; steadfastness of courage and a high spirit.

Holly and mistletoe festooned the doorways, logs roared on brass
andirons, and silver-sconced candles glowed against an ivory softness of
white wainscoting and the waxed darkness of mahogany. He loved it all;
the simple uncrowded elegance; the chaste designs of silver, upon which
the tempered lights found rebirth; the ripe age of the family portraits.
It stood for a worthy