"My hair not being dressed à l'Iroquois, I consent to show you mercy," she said. "But you came monstrous near frightening me, too. Do you know you turned white, Mr. Renault? Lud! the vanity of men, to pale at a jest touching their status in fopdom as proper macaroni!"
"I do love to appear well," I said resentfully.
"Now do you expect me to assure you that you do appear well? that even the dress of a ragged forest-runner would detract nothing from your person? Ah, I shall say nothing of the sort, Mr. Renault! Doubtless there are women a-plenty in New York to flatter you."
"No," I said; "they prefer scarlet coats and spurs, as you will, too."
"No doubt," she said, turning her head to the sunset.
There was enough wind to flutter the ribbons on her shoulders and bare neck, and to stir the tendrils of her powdered hair, a light breeze blowing steadily from the bay as the sun went down into the crimson flood. Bang! A cloud of white smoke hung over Pearl Street where the evening gun had spoken; the flag on the fort fluttered down, the flag on the battery followed. Out on the darkening river a lanthorn glimmered from the deck of the Jersey; a light sparkled on Paulus Hook.
"Hark! hear the drums!" she murmured. Far down Broadway the British drums sounded, nearer, nearer, now loud along Dock Street, now lost in Queen, then swinging west by north they came up Broad, into Wall; and I could hear the fifes shrilling out, "The World turned Upside-down," and the measured tread of the patrol, marching to the Upper Barracks and the Prison.
The drummers wheeled into Broadway beneath our windows; leaning over I saw them pass, and I was aware of something else, too--a great strapping figure in a drover's smock, watching the British drums from the side path across the way--my friend of Nassau Street--and clinging to his arm, a little withered man, wrinkled, mild-eyed, clad also like a drover, and snapping his bull-whip to accent the rhythm of the rolling drums.
"I think I shall go down," said a soft voice beside me; "pray do not move, Mr. Renault, you are so picturesque in silhouette against the sunset--and I hear that silhouettes are so fashionable in New York fopdom."
I bowed; she held out her hand--just a trifle, as she passed me, the gesture of a coquette or of perfect innocence--and I touched it lightly with finger-tip and lip.
"Until supper," she said--"and, Mr. Renault, do you suppose we shall have bread for supper?"
"Why not?" I asked, all unsuspicious.