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Chapter 35

           Scarletthadsatonthatsofasoofteninthefirstyearsofthewar,alwayswithsomehandsomeofficerbesideher,andlistenedtoviolinandbullfiddle,accordionandbanjo,andheardtheexcitingswishingnoiseswhichdancingfeetmadeonthewaxedandpolishedfloor.

           Nowthechandelierhungdark.Itwastwistedaskewandmostoftheprismswerebroken,asiftheYankeeoccupantshadmadetheirbeautyatargetfortheirboots.Nowanoillampandafewcandleslightedtheroomandtheroaringfireinthewidehearthgavemostoftheillumination.Itsflickeringlightshowedhowirreparablyscarredandsplinteredthedulloldfloorwas.Squaresonthefadedpaperonthewallgaveevidencethatoncetheportraitshadhungthere,andwidecracksintheplasterrecalledthedayduringthesiegewhenashellhadexplodedonthehouseandtornoffpartsoftheroofandsecondfloor.Theheavyoldmahoganytable,spreadwithcakeanddecanters,stillpresidedintheempty-lookingdiningroombutitwasscratchedandthebrokenlegsshowedsignsofclumsyrepair.Thesideboard,thesilverandthespindlychairsweregone.Thedull-golddamaskdraperieswhichhadcoveredthearchingFrenchwindowsatthebackoftheroomweremissing,andonlytheremnantsofthelacecurtainsremained,cleanbutobviouslymended.

           Inplaceofthecurvedsofashehadlikedsomuchwasahardbenchthatwasnonetoocomfortable.Shesatuponitwithasgoodgraceaspossible,wishingherskirtswereinsuchconditionthatshecoulddance.Itwouldbesogoodtodanceagain.

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