Preston did not answer. "I hope
there are not many great men that look like him," I went on.
"Nonsense, Daisy!" said Preston, in an energetic whisper.
"That is Davis of Mississippi."
"Well?" said I. "That is no more to me than if he were Jones
of New York."
"Daisy!" said Preston. "If you are not a true Southerner, I
will never love you any more."
"What do you mean by a true Southerner? I do not understand."
"Yes, you do. A true Southerner is always a Southerner, and
takes the part of a Southerner in every dispute, — right or
wrong."
"What makes you dislike Northerners so much?"
"Cowardly Yankees!" was Preston's reply.
"You must have an uncomfortable time among them, if you feel
so," I said.
"There are plenty of the true sort here. I wish you were in
Paris, Daisy; or somewhere else."
"Why?" I said, laughing.
"Safe with my mother, or your mother. Yon want teaching. You
are too latitudinarian. And you are too thick with the
Yankees, by half."
I let this opinion alone, as I could do nothing with it; and
our conversation broke off with Preston in a very bad humour.
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