“And you hadn’t the strength of character,” she said, scornfully, “to refuse.”

“Pshaw, Jinny, a gentleman must be a gentleman.  I’m no Yankee.”

For a space Virginia answered nothing.  Then she said, without changing her position: 

“If you were, you might be worth something.”

“Virginia!”

She did not reply, but sat gazing toward the water.  He began to pace the veranda, fiercely.

“Look here, Jinny,” he cried, pausing in front of her.  “There are some things you can’t say to me, even in jest.”

Virginia rose, flicked her riding-whip, and started down the steps.

“Don’t be a fool, Max,” she said.

He followed her, bewildered.  She skirted the garden, passed the orchard, and finally reached a summer house perched on a knoll at the edge of the wood.  Then she seated herself on a bench, silently.  He took a place on the opposite side, with his feet stretched out, dejectedly.

“I’m tired trying to please you,” he said.  “I have been a fool.  You don’t care that for me.  It was all right when I was younger, when there was no one else to take you riding, and jump off the barn for your amusement, Miss.  Now you have Tom Catherwood and Jack Brinsmade and the Russell boys running after you, it’s different.  I reckon I’ll go to Kansas.  There are Yankees to shoot in Kansas.”

He did not see her smile as he sat staring at his feet.

“Max,” said she, all at once, “why don’t you settle down to something?  Why don’t you work?”

Young Mr. Colfax’s arm swept around in a circle.

There are twelve hundred acres to look after here, and a few niggers.  That’s enough for a gentleman.”

“Pooh!” exclaimed his cousin, “this isn’t a cotton plantation.  Aunt Lillian doesn’t farm for money.  If she did, you would have to check your extravagances mighty quick, sir.”

“I look after Pompey’s reports, I do as much work as my ancestors,” answered Clarence, hotly.

“Ah, that is the trouble,” said Virginia.

“What do you mean?” her cousin demanded.

“We have been gentlemen too long,” said Virginia.

The boy straightened up and rose.  The pride and wilfulness of generations was indeed in his handsome face.  And something else went with it.  Around the mouth a grave tinge of indulgence.

“What has your life been?” she went on, speaking rapidly.  “A mixture of gamecocks and ponies and race horses and billiards, and idleness at the Virginia Springs, and fighting with other boys.  What do you know?  You wouldn’t go to college.  You wouldn’t study law.  You can’t write a decent letter.  You don’t know anything about the history of your country.  What can you do—?”

“I can ride and fight,” he said.  “I can go to New Orleans to-morrow to join Walker’s Nicaragua expedition.  We’ve got to beat the Yankees, —­they’ll have Kansas away from us before we know it.”