“Oh! superbly, with flowers wreathed around the columns.”
“Mrs. Cotterell’s rooms have no pillars,” said Miss Brockendale, speaking very audibly and distinctly, and addressing herself to Sophia, near whom she was seated.
“Well, then,” continued Mrs. Brockendale, “there were wreaths festooned along the walls. You cannot say there were no walls.”
“There were no wreaths except those that ornamented the lamps and chandeliers,” said Miss Brockendale, always addressing Sophia.
“Oh! yes, the flowers were all about the lights. That was what made them look so pretty. One thing I am certain of, the rooms were as light as day. There must have been five hundred candles.”
“There was not one,” said Miss Brockendale to Sophia. “The rooms were lighted entirely with gas.”
“Well, it might have been a sort of gas. I declare my head is always so filled with things of importance, that I have no memory for trifles. This I know, that the furniture was all crimson velvet trimmed with gold-colour.”
“It was blue satin damask trimmed with a rich dark brown,” said her daughter to Miss Fayland.
“Well, the crimson might have had a bluish cast. I have certainly seen crimson velvet somewhere. The truth is, almost as soon as we entered, I saw my friend Mr. Weston, the member of Congress (either from Greenbay or Georgetown, I forget which), and so we got to talking about Texas and things; and that may be the reason I did not particularly notice the rooms. I almost got into a quarrel with this same Congress-man about the President, who, in spite of all I could say, Mr. Weston persisted in declaring has never threatened to go to war with Germany.”
“Neither he has,” said Miss Brockendale, this time directing her looks to her mother.
“Then he has set himself against railroads, or injured the crops, or invited over five hundred thousand millions of Irish.”
“He has done none of these things.”
“He has done something, I am very sure. Or, if he has not, some other President has. I never can remember how the Presi-
