"Why, Mammy said Mr. Goodloe had breakfast with you. Did you sneak it

from the judge's pitcher?" demanded Letitia, as she likewise drew her

knees up into her arms and settled herself against one of the posts of

my bed for the many hours' résumé of our individual existences in which

we always indulged upon being reunited after separation.

"I did not," I answered. "I drank it before his eyes, and then I don't

remember what happened and I don't care."

"What?"

"Just that. I never have been drunk because I never could drink enough.

I've always felt that there isn't enough liquid in the world to faze me,

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and I don't like it anyway, but Dabney was so impressed by His Worship

that he poured it double for me before I had had breakfast. I hope I

staggered or swore but I don't think I did. The Reverend Goodloe can

tell you better than I. Ask him."

"Gregory Goodloe? Oh, Charlotte!"

"That's the point I was coming to, Letitia: Just who is this Reverend

Goodloe that I shouldn't drink a quart of mint julep before him if I

want to? I had well over a pint of champagne with a Mr. Justice two

nights before I left New York and I stopped then out of courtesy to one

of the generals whom we expect to defend us from the Kaiser. Who is your

Gregory Goodloe? Tell we all about him, unexpurgated and unafraid."

"Didn't you know about him--and the chapel before you came?" Letitia

queried cautiously, as if fearing the explosion she felt was sure to

result.

"I did not," I answered. "I met him and his chapel and the mint julep

all in the same five minutes, and is it any wonder I went down? Go on.

Tell me the worst or the best. I'm ready." And as I spoke I settled my

pillows comfortably, getting a little thrill from the crumpled letter

underneath the bottom one.




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