Guests came and went at Mrs. Gower’s, all with some charm of person, or of fashion, or of successful mind; applied intellect, not perhaps the pure kind. Arthur spent a few days in town, to prepare for his longer absence on the coaching trip; Tamms was moving down to his summer quarters near Long Branch, and old Mr. Townley hardly ever came to the office now. He had a private room up-stairs, where he used to spend some two or three hours a week, looking after his trusts. Charlie was neglecting his business more than ever, but seemed to make up for it by his devotions to Mamie Livingstone, which were almost getting, for him, exclusive. That young lady was “coming out” the next autumn, and already making elaborate preparations for it. Arthur saw her when he went to call on Gracie Holyoke, who was going, with Miss Brevier, to the old place at Great Barrington for the summer. Mrs. Malgam had gone away, and Haviland, and Miss Lenoir; and the party had gradually settled down to those who were invited for the drive. As their numbers were narrowed, a feeling of increased intimacy sprang up among those who were to go through so much together; and they were fond of talking of it and consulting maps as to roads and stopping-places; and they grew confidential about outsiders. “But I thought Mrs. Malgam was to go with us, too,” said Mrs. Hay one day to Pussie; the two women were sitting on a new-mown hay-rick on the lawn, that had been cut for ornamental purposes, too soon to make good hay. Arthur was lying, with a volume of poetry, at their feet. “Oh, dear, no,” laughed innocent Miss Duval. “Flossie and Baby never could abide each other. You must know Mrs. Malgam is a very dangerous person, for all she looks like a pan of cream.” “Oh, indeed,” said Mrs. Hay, compressing her rich lips. She had recognized in Mrs. Malgam her American counterpart, and was slightly afraid of the violet-eyed brune, to whose deeper beauty her own made but a tinsel foil. “Yes, indeed,” said Pussie. “You know a man shot himself for Mrs. Malgam, once, they say. Isn’t it exciting?” “What, really?” put in Arthur. He had been forgotten for the moment; and Mrs. Hay drew up her red satin brodequins with a start. “Here comes Mrs. Gower,” said she, “suppose we ask her?” “Oh, don’t,” put in Pussie, rather frightened; but Mrs. Hay was not to be repressed. Flossie Gower barely raised her eyebrows at the question. “There was a man, a Mr. Vane, who shot himself,” said she. “But it was from overwork, and not for Baby Malgam, I suspect. He was nothing but a money-making machine.”