Mountain. Looking within he saw their gleams on vanished roses in the
old brocade; on dingy armor of those who had fought with Charlie Stuart;
on stately mahogany, old pewters, and on portraits of the fighting
Ravenels of days long gone. There was Malcom, who died music-mad; Des
Grieux, the one with ruff and falcon, said to be a Romney; and that
Francis, fourth of the name (whom the present Francis most resembled),
who had lost his life, the story ran, for a queen too fair and fond.

Mrs. Ravenel, adoring and tender, in lavender and old lace, the
merriest, gayest, most illogical little mother in all that mother-land
of the South, regarded Frank as he re-entered with a blush of pleasure
on her bright, fond face.

"Who has the Mainwaring place, mother?" he asked.

"A heavenly person," Mrs. Ravenel answered.

"Man, I suppose," Francis laughed.

Mrs. Ravenel nodded assent and repeated: "Heavenly! An Irishman; with
black hair, very black brows, pale like a Spaniard, about thirty--"

"Your own age," Frank interrupted, with a complimentary gesture.

--"who rides like a trooper, drinks half a glass of whiskey at a gulp,
and is the greatest liar I can imagine."

"It's enlightening to discover an adored parent's idea of a heavenly
person," Francis said, with an amused smile.