Katrine

As her son turned to kiss the slender fingers, Dermott McDermott regarded the two curiously.

"You're fortunate in having a son of twenty--" He hesitated.

"Of twenty-five," Francis finished for him.

"--so devoted to you, madam. Ye're twenty-five--coming or going?" he inquired, with a laugh.

"On my last birthday--April."

An odd light shone in McDermott's eyes for a second before he said, with a bow:

"Neither of ye look it; I can assure you of that. Well," he continued, reaching for his cap and whip, "I must be going. Ye've found already, haven't ye, Ravenel, that the sound of my own voice is the music of heaven to my ears?" And then, as though trying to recollect: "I think I said it was at Ramazan Dulany and I fought together?"

Francis nodded.

"God," McDermott cried, his face illumined, his eyes glowing, "I wish it had been Waterloo! I've always carried a bruised spirit that I didn't fight at Waterloo."