“We-e-ell,”—Thair drawled out the word interminably, while amused recollection crossed his face,—“the rains fell, and the winds blew! _I_ stayed at the club through the worst of it. I was sorry for the women—the young madam and Mrs. Essington. They had to stick it out.” “You mean Mrs. Budd was so annoyed?” Holden was a little puzzled. “Annoyed! Oh, Lord, that’s not the word! Cis says ‘upset.’ That’s nearer, only seventeen times more upset than usual! Poor woman, she feels that Julia owes the man some reparation for ‘breaking his neck,’ but marriage seems to her extreme.” “But what’s the objection? He seems a decent sort of chap.” “He is; the decentest of his sort; but it’s not the sort madam had hoped for Julia. Money, y’ know, and—well, composers seem a bit out of the way to her. But the girl has too much blood to take—” he smiled quizzically—“what was the ‘correct thing.’” “I’ve had an idea that this would come about from the first,” said Holden, complacently. “M’m?” Thair mused, interrogative. “Mrs. Essington’s been immensely interested in those two young people. Shouldn’t wonder—” Thair bit off a smile. “Remarkable woman, Mrs. Essington,” he observed. “That damned train’s spending the night on the switch,” growled Holden. He didn’t look down the track, but over his shoulder at the “Miramar” runabout that had just come into sight around the turn of the drive. The lady who sat so erect beside the groom was Florence Essington. Holden looked relieved. Thair indulged in what might be called a mental whistle. He gave one sharp glance at Holden, whose attention was engrossed by the approaching vehicle; then a frank smile and a wave of the hand toward the lady—a salute she returned in kind. The approaching train hurried their greetings and farewells, but in that short time he got an impression of a more obvious sophistication, a more pronounced worldliness in her than he had recalled. Her gown, black with dashes of white, suggested the last and finest flight of fashion; her manner, the latest, most charming importation; her very movement, a consciousness of the keen eye of the world. While he pondered whether these differences did not merely enhance the beauty of her shadowed eyes, her black and white glimmered through the door of the car. Holden waved his hand from the step and followed her. Thair wandered down the platform toward where the groom held his uneasy mount. “That’s a match,” he muttered. “She’ll take him. That’s what she means. She’s wise. Great woman! If a man were fool enough—h’m, h’m!” He nodded to the groom. -------------- Holden, having established his bags in a seat near the door, took the chair next Florence. She was merry, full of twisted phrases, making him laugh in spite of his impatience. “I believe,” he told her, half in earnest, “it’s because you’ve fetched that engagement you’re in such spirits.” “Oh, do you think me a match-maker?” she laughed.