Stuart made a low bow, and said:--
"All are here, madam!"
All at once, however, a voice at the door responded:--
"I think you are mistaken, general!"
And he who had uttered these words advanced into the apartment.
He was a young man, about twenty-three, of medium height, graceful, and
with a smile of charming good humor upon the lips. His hair was light
and curling; his eyes blue; his lips shaded by a slender mustache. His
uniform was brand new, and decorated with the braid of a lieutenant.
Yellow gauntlets reached his elbow, he wore a shiny new satchel, and in
his hand carried a brown felt hat, caught up with a golden star.
Stuart grasped his hand warmly.
"Here you are, old fellow!" he exclaimed.
And turning to the company, he added:--
"My new aid-de-camp, Lieutenant Herbert, ladies. A fop--but an old
soldier. Take that seat by Colonel Surry, Tom."
And every one sat down, and attacked the supper.
I had shaken hands with Tom Herbert, who was far from being a stranger
to me, as I had met him frequently in the drawing-rooms of Richmond
before the war. He was a fop, but the most charming of fops, when I
first knew him. He wore brilliant waistcoats, variegated scarfs,
diamond studs, and straw-colored kid gloves. In his hand he used to
flourish an ivory-headed whalebone cane, and his boots were of feminine
delicacy and dimensions.
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