"He was not only president and founder," observed Colonel Hyssop, "but he owned three-quarters of the stock." "Are the shares valuable?" she asked. "I have them; I should be glad to give them to the club, Colonel Hyssop--in his memory." "Good gad! madam," said the Colonel, "the shares are worth five thousand apiece!" "I am the happier to give them--if the club will accept," she said, flushing, embarrassed, fearful of posing as a Lady Bountiful before anybody. She added, hastily, "You must direct me in the matter, Colonel Hyssop; we can talk of it later." Again she looked up into her husband's face over the mantel. Her bull-terrier came trotting into the hall, his polished nails and padded feet beating a patter across the hardwood floor. "I shall dine in my own rooms this evening," she said, smiling vaguely at the approaching dog. "We hoped to welcome you to the club table," cried the Major. "There are only the Major and myself," added the Colonel, with courteous entreaty. "And the other--the new man," corrected the Major, with a wry face. "Oh yes--the bad rod. What's his name?" "Langham," said the Major. The English maid came down to conduct her mistress to her rooms; the two gentlemen bowed as their build permitted; the bull-terrier trotted behind his mistress up the polished stairs. Presently a door closed above. "Devilish fine woman," said Major Brent. Colonel Hyssop went to a mirror and examined himself with close attention. "Good gad!" he said, irritably, "how thin my hair is!" "Thin!" said Major Brent, with an unpleasant laugh; "thin as the hair on a Mexican poodle." "You infernal ass!" hissed the Colonel, and waddled off to dress for dinner. At the door he paused. "Better have no hair than a complexion like a violet!" "What's that?" cried the Major. The Colonel slammed the door. Up-stairs the bull-terrier lay on a rug watching his mistress with tireless eyes. The maid brought tea, bread and butter, and trout fried crisp, for her mistress desired nothing else. Left alone, she leaned back, sipping her tea, listening to the million tiny voices of the night. The stillness of the country made her nervous after the clatter of town. Nervous? Was it the tranquil stillness of the night outside that stirred that growing apprehension in her breast till, of a sudden, her heart began a deadened throbbing? Langham here? What was he doing here? He must have arrived this morning. So that was where he was going when he said he was going north! After all, in what did it concern her? She had not run away from town to avoid him, ... indeed not, ... her pilgrimage was her own affair. And Langham would very quickly divine her pious impulse in coming here.... And he would doubtless respect her for it.... Perhaps have the subtle tact to pack up his traps and leave.... But probably not.... She knew a little about Langham, ... an obstinate and typical man, ... doubtless selfish to the core, ... cheerfully, naively selfish....