Again Tamms looked to Remington. There was a silence of some minutes, rather embarrassing to two of the company, at least. “Well, well,” said Remington, at last, “I may have done you wrong, Tamms. But now you’ve got my stock.” And without the formalities of leave-taking, he rose and shuffled out of the shop. Tamms watched him almost regretfully, and when he disappeared down the street, turned to Charlie. “There, I fear, goes a man who will be a chronic bear upon the Allegheny Central,” said he. Tamms had fallen into a way of making these semi-confidences to Charlie; and the latter was struck with the justice of this remark. This scene was fresh in Charlie’s mind to-day when driving with Mamie through the calm, deep woods that clothe the Berkshire hills. Charlie was afraid of the Deacon; and sought Mamie’s money’s aid against him. Ah! Shakespeare’s heroines had a simple time enough; what would they do in these days, when Shylock masks as Romeo, and Othello, turned soldier of fortune, seeks distinction at his mistress’s mouth? I fear me even Portia would have found her match. But Mamie would go to the meet--yes, she would. Where love, inclination, and social ambition coincide, what prudent counsels of a country girl like Gracie could resist them? She wrote that evening, thanking Mrs. Gower for her invitation, and only on the next day told Gracie what she had done. Gracie knew Mrs. Gower only slightly; though, had she known her a thousand years, she would not have known her well. The kennels were at the “Bogardus Farm,” and after the meet there was to be a hunt dinner and a hunt ball. Mrs. Gower had many mansions, many places in which to lay her pretty head--and the heads of her guests--and now, it seems, she had a cottage near by, in which Mamie was to go. And the other guests, as Flossie wrote, were to be only Lord Birmingham, Kitty Farnum--and Mr. Wemyss. For this meeting was indeed “select;” only of the very gayest, smartest few, those of whose prominence there could be no question in the race after pleasure, only those whose purses and whose persons kept the pace that fashion, for the time, demanded. And both the horses and the dogs were also of the choicest breed and blood, and were worth, each and all, his hundreds or his thousands; and the human beings, too, if of their blood we dare not say so much, were of breeding _à la mode_, and worth, I dare say, any sums you like. John Haviland was not here, nor Lionel Derwent, nor even poor Arthur yet--but only those who made, or seemed to make, the very lightest little game of life.