He bowed.  “You pay us a high compliment.”

I smiled urbanely.  “If the truth is a compliment!”

“Our young ladies are roses,” he now admitted with a delicate touch of pride.

“Don’t forget your old ones!  I never shall.”

There was pleasure in his face at this tribute, which, he could see, came from the heart.  But, thus pictured to him, the old ladies brought a further idea quite plainly into his expression; and he announced it.  “Some of them are not without thorns.”

“What would you give,” I quickly replied, “for anybody—­man or woman—­who could not, on an occasion, make themselves sharply felt?”

To this he returned a full but somewhat absent-minded assent.  He seemed to be reflecting that he himself didn’t care to be the “occasion” upon which an old lady rose should try her thorns; and I was inclined to suspect that his intimate aunt had been giving him a wigging.

Anyhow, I stood ready to keep it up, this interchange of lofty civilities.  I, too, could wear the courtly red-heels of eighteenth-century procedure, and for just as long as his Southern up-bringing inclined him to wear them; I hadn’t known Aunt Carola for nothing!  But we, as I have said, were not destined to dance any minuet.

We had been moving, very gradually, and without any attention to our surroundings, to and fro in the beautiful sweet churchyard.  Flowers were everywhere, growing, budding, blooming; color and perfume were parts of the very air, and beneath these pretty and ancient tombs, graven with old dates and honorable names, slept the men and women who had given Kings Port her high place is; in our history.  I have never, in this country, seen any churchyard comparable to this one; happy, serene dead, to sleep amid such blossoms and consecration!  Good taste prevailed here; distinguished men lay beneath memorial stones that came no higher than your waist or shoulder; there was a total absence of obscure grocers reposing under gigantic obelisks; to earn a monument here you must win a battle, or do, at any rate, something more than adulterate sugar and oil.  The particular monument by which young John Mayrant and I found ourselves standing, when we reached the point about the ladies and the thorns, had a look of importance and it caught his eye, bringing him back to where we were.  Upon his pointing to it, and before we had spoken or I had seen the name, I inquired eagerly:  “Not the lieutenant of the Bon Homme Richard?” and then saw that Mayrant was not the name upon it.

My knowledge of his gallant sea-fighting namesake visibly gratified him.  “I wish it were,” he said; “but I am descended from this man, too.  He was a statesman, and some of his brilliant powers were inherited by his children—­but they have not come so far down as me.  In 1840, his daughter, Miss Beaufain—­”

I laid my hand right on his shoulder.  “Don’t you do it, John Mayrant!” I cried.  “Don’t you tell me that.  Last night I caught myself saying that instead of my prayers.”