Estell was carrying a cane in his right hand and he stuck out one finger for me to shake. But when in the same manner he presumed to greet the old lady, she stormed at him: "Look here, Tom Estell, don't give me no one finger to shake. Andrew Jackson gave me his whole hand when I was a child, and I want no one finger now. That's like it," she added, as he put his cane under his arm and gave her his hand. Mrs. Estell entered the room. "Why, you old surprise party," she cried. He stepped forward, but, catching sight of her riding habit, he halted. "What does all this mean?" he asked. "Why, we were going fox-hunting, dear." "You--you going?" "Why, yes. You have never objected." "But I do now." "Very well," she replied, beginning to pull at her gloves. "Tom," cried the Senator, "what the devil--I mean the deuce--is the matter with you?" And then Aunt Patsey broke out, jumping from her chair and shaking her finger at Estell: "You are trying to smother the God-given spirit of that child, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You hate to see her run--you want to see her dodder about like an old man. What earthly harm can there be in her going fox-hunting? Better men than you ever dared be have chased foxes and have let their wives go, too. Don't you dare say a word to me--don't you dare!" Estell turned about and strode with sullen step to the foot of the stairs, the Senator passing him without saying a word. I was standing at the door, and I stepped aside to let Mrs. Estell pass, but she lingered in the parlor, as if to speak to her aunt, as if, in truth, she would put her arms about the old woman's neck; and I turned my back, to face the State Treasurer, standing at the foot of the stairs. Our eyes met, but he was silent, and I had nothing to say. Mrs. Estell came out into the hall, but returned almost instantly to the old woman, and Estell trod wearily to the upper floor. His wife came out, and she looked up with duty's self-conscious smile. "May I speak a word?" I asked. "Just one?" "Two," she answered. "I promised to read my play to you." "Yes; and you will--" "Not keep my promise." We were walking slowly toward the stairway, she slightly in advance. But now her feet were quick, until she reached the stair, and then she halted, turned to me, and said: "Mr. Belford, any man can make a promise, but sometimes it requires a _gentleman_ to break one." I had no reply to make; I was the interloper. I bowed to her, and, snatching my hat from the halltree, I passed out upon the portico.