The congressman stood, his eyes glaring impotent rage out of a blank white face. They stood thus for a full minute, and then Garwood, readjusting his overcoat with a shrug of his shoulders, turned to walk away. The throng that had pressed closely about them silently parted to make a way for him, and he passed out of their midst. Rankin stood and gazed after him. He stood and gazed, and the people standing by in painful silence watched with him the figure of Garwood, rapidly making for the door, held as erectly and as dignifiedly as he could, for the man had need of all his dignity then. Rankin watched him out of sight. Then he turned. The crowd had found tongue, and a hum of voices arose. Several tried to speak to him. "Served him just right," some one began, sympathetically. "You go to hell," said Rankin, brushing the startled man aside. And then he went away, forgetting to post the Christmas letter his wife had intrusted to him. Out in the drizzling holiday streets, Garwood hurried along, sick with the humiliation of the scene, but as he thought of it, his old habit of self-pity reasserted itself, and with this ruse he tried to lure back some of his old self-respect. So well did he succeed that when he reached home he was red with wrath and muttering. Emily, from her window, saw him coming, and hastened to meet him at the door. "Why, Jerome, what is the matter?" she cried, when she saw his face. He flung off his overcoat and hurled his hat at the rack. "Well, I've seen your friend, Jim Rankin." "Jim Rankin?" she exclaimed. "What in the world has happened?" "I never was so mortified in my life! I never endured such insolence, such ignominy, such abuse!" "Why--tell me--dear, where was it?" "In the post-office, in the most public place in town, before a crowd of people--Ach!" He shook his head in disgust and wrath. "Why, what did he say--tell me!" Emily almost screamed. "I met him accidentally, I greeted him, I told him I wished to see him, to talk to him. I was going to take care of him--I had it all arranged to fix the whole damned business--" "Jerome!" He had never sworn in her presence before. "But he wouldn't listen," he rushed on. "He poured out upon me a perfect torrent of profanity and obscenity; it was disgusting, humiliating; I should have struck him down!" "But you didn't?" she asked, and her tone made her question half a plea. She bent toward him and laid her hands on his shoulders. "No--I walked away." "That was right," she smiled, "that was the dignified way." She looked at him in her sympathy. She had all the morning regretted her words of the evening before, though they had not recurred to them at all in the time intervening. And she was glad of some excuse for ridding her breast of the conviction out of which those words had been spoken. "I haven't any sympathy for him at all!" she exclaimed. "I did think--but this shows me how wrong I was, how I misjudged you. Can you forgive me, dear?"