the half-open door, the doctor's voice and Ludwell Cary's expressions of
concern, Jacqueline's low replies, a confusion of other voices, and
finally, from the head of the stairs, Colonel Dick's hearty "Come up,
Gilmer, come up! D'ye remember that damned place in the hill road where
my mare Nelly threw me, coming home at dawn from Maria Erskine's
wedding?"

Steps and voices died away. The evening shadows lengthened, and filled
the library where Uncle Edward sat, propping his lean old chin upon his
lean old hand, and staring at a dim old clock in the corner, as if it
could tell him more than the time of day. He heard Mr. Pincornet's
fiddle from the long parlour in the other wing. Since the doctor was
come, the younger part of the gathering at Fontenoy had cheerfully
returned to its business. The dancing class was not long neglected.
Uncle Edward disliked France, disliked even monarchical and émigré
France. And he disliked all music but Jacqueline's singing, and disliked
the fiddle because Thomas Jefferson played it. He half rose to shut the
door and so keep out Mr. Pincornet's Minuet from Ariadne, but reflected
that the door would also keep out the doctor's descending voice and
final dicta delivered at the stair-foot. Uncle Edward was as curious as
a woman, and the door remained ajar. He tried to read, but the words
conveyed no meaning to his mind, which became more and more frowningly
intent upon the fact of Jacqueline's weeping. What had the child to weep
for? He determined to send to Richmond to-morrow for a certain watch
which he had in his mind,--plain gold with J.C. upon it in pearls. He
reflected with satisfaction that Cary as well as Churchill began with a
C.

The glass door led by a flight of steps down to the flower garden. Deb
came up the steps and into the library. "Kiss me good-night, Uncle