All that evening, as Olivia sat with a book on her lap, not reading, but watching the flame on the broad hearth, she was turning over in her mind what Madame Koller had said. It had disturbed her very much. It had not raised Pembroke at all in her esteem. She begun, nevertheless, to think with pity over the wretchedness of his fate should he be condemned to poverty. She fancied him harassed by debts, by Miles’ helplessness. Her tender heart filled with pity. “Olivia, my love,” said the Colonel, emerging from behind his newspaper for a moment. “Pembroke means to try for the nomination to Congress--and Cave tells me he is pretty sure to get it. Great pity. A man who goes into public life without out a competence dooms himself to a dog’s life for the remainder of his days. It ruined Pembroke’s father thirty years ago.” Olivia started. This was like an oracle answering her own thoughts. She thought, with a little bitter smile that it did not require much generosity to give up a man on whom one had no claim, and laughed at the idea of a struggle. At all events she would forget it all. It was not so easy to forget though. The thought stayed with her, and went to bed with her, and rose with her next morning. Meanwhile, alas, for Madame Koller. When she came out, she looked around in vain for the negro woman who had come with her. She was not to be seen. They had come by the path that led through the fields, which made it only a mile from The Beeches to Isleham, but in going back, she missed her way--and then being a little afraid of the negroes, she went “around the road,” as they called it. At the first gate, a man galloped out of the darkness. It was Pembroke. He recognized her at once, and got off his horse. “You here,” he cried in surprise--“at this hour”--for it was well on to seven o’clock, and Madame Koller was not noted for her fondness for walking. “Yes,” she answered. “Is anything the matter at Isleham?” he asked--for she could not have come from anywhere else. “Nothing at all,” she replied nervously. “I--I--went over to see Olivia Berkeley,” she added boldly. Pembroke could say nothing. After a pause, Madame Koller burst out. “Pembroke, that girl is made of iron. She cares nothing for you--for anybody but herself.” “And did you find out any of those things by asking her?” he inquired. The twilight was so upon them that Madame Koller could not well see Pembroke’s face, but she realized the tone of suppressed rage in his voice. She herself had a temper that was stormy, and it flamed out at that tone. “Yes, I asked her. Are you a man that you can reproach me with it?” It is difficult for a man, if he is a gentleman, to express his wrath toward a woman. Pembroke was infuriated at the idea that Madame Koller should go to Olivia Berkeley and ask prying questions. He ground his teeth with wrath as he looked at Madame Koller standing before him, in the half light.