his chief distinction, perhaps, was as a professional Southerner.  Combining a genial charm of manner with as sterile an intellect as it is possible to attain, he was generally regarded as a perfect example of “the old school,” and this picturesque reputation made him desirable as a guest at club dinners as well as at the larger gatherings of the various Southern societies.  His conversation, which was entirely anecdotal, consisted of an elaborate endless chain of more or less historical “stories.”  Social movements and the development of civilization interested him as little as did art or science—­for which he entertained a chronic suspicion due to the indiscretions of Darwin.  Change of any kind was repugnant to his deeper instincts, and of all changes the ones relating to the habits of women appeared to him to interfere most unwarrantably with the Creator’s original plan.  For the rest he had the heart of a child, would strip the clothes from his back to give to a friend, or even to an enemy, and possessed an infallible gift for making a dinner successful.

On Colonel Buffington’s right sat Mrs. Hamilton, a very pretty, very sprightly widow, with her hair coiled into the fashionable Psyche knot, and the short puffs of her sleeves emphasizing the hour-glass perfection of her figure.  Next to Mrs. Hamilton there was Billy King, who wore a white flower in his buttonhole and looked like a soldier out of uniform, and beyond Billy sat Mrs. Crowborough, whom he was trying despairingly to entertain.  She, renowned and estimable woman, was planning in her mind what she should say at a board meeting of one of her pet charities on the morrow, a charity which, like all of her favourite ones, concerned itself with the management and spiritual elevation of girl orphans.  Tall, raw-boned, strung with jet, Mrs. Crowborough, who had been married for her money, looked as sympathetic as a moral principle or an organized charity.  Unfortunately, for she was rather heavy in company, Judge Crowborough was obliged by custom to bring her to dinner; and she came willingly, inspired less by sociability than by the virtuous instinct which animated her being.  Mr. Fowler had taken her in to dinner, and while she lent an inert attention to Billy’s jests, he talked across Gabriella to Judge Crowborough, who was eating his soup with the complete absorption of a man to whom the smallest of his appetities is sacred.  It was a grievance of Mrs. Fowler’s that her husband would never, as she said, “pay any attention to women,” and in order to feel assured of even so much as a cheerful noise at his end of the table, she was obliged to place within hearing distance of him somebody who could talk fluently, if not eloquently, of the stock market.