I would gasp, draw my hand to my chest, lean in and whisper across the table, “Are you speaking of the daughter of that most exalted house that extended the balm of Christian charity with her sisters to the valiantly wounded in the aftermath of The Battle of Fort Magruder?” And as you said, “What?” I would stand up and march — briskly, of course — to the dusty glass window with the morning light streaming in and stare across the plains of infinity, saying in a voice fit only for a thousand yard stare, “I remember that name. I remember that name well.” Slowly, I would raise my hand and place the tips of my fingers across the glass.