It was not a pleasant theme for thought. Eunice longed for the bright, strong presence of her brother to dissipate the clouds that seemed to close her in. But Tom was away in the West for an indefinite period. He had left town the morning after Mrs. Ellison’s unlucky dinner, from which he and his sister had withdrawn simply because it was impossible for them, in self-respect, to remain for a dance of which Carmichael was the leader. Carmichael no doubt had recognized their motive in quitting the house. For this offense against his vanity, and the refusal to know him that had preceded it, was it possible that he-- Eunice sprang upon her feet. She had solved the motive of the attack upon her brother. It was Carmichael they had to thank for the foul imputation. And upon this poor, lying, truckling creature, living upon his wits and the patronage of wealthy friends, she had once lavished the treasure of her young, impulsive love! A flood of shame and disgust ran over her. Then anger filled up the measure of her emotions. If she could only meet him--crush him with her disdain--make him confess the new offense he had committed against his former benefactor! For Eunice, despite her marriage and the dignity that fact gave her, despite her husband’s wise control, was still a very young, impulsive woman, and in that moment felt strong enough for any deed of righteous wrath. A servant, coming noiselessly into the room, presented at her side a little tray containing a card. “But I told you I am not receiving, Jasper,” she said, without offering to take up the card. “The gentleman said it is about a matter of business, madam, and that he will detain you a few moments only.” She glanced at the name, and felt a throb of the heart that almost choked her utterance, for it was the card of Ashton Carmichael! Here, in her house! He had ventured to cross her threshold! It must indeed be a matter of importance that had nerved him to come here! “Say I shall be down at once, Jasper.” Her spirit rose as she went down the broad stairway of her husband’s home. She was on her own ground, safely intrenched; he was the intruder whom a word could thrust from her door. Something of this was apparent in her beautiful face, in her erect head, her eyes sparkling with indignation. Carmichael, who had not sat down in the formal room of state into which they had ushered him, felt it, and winced. He had come there relying upon his unconquerable audacity, and to be so soon put at a disadvantage he resented bitterly. But he did not mean to let her speak first. “I know what you would say,” he began, with an assumption of humility. “I am a pretender, a man who pushes himself where he is not bidden; a villain, if you like. But I have some feeling left, and I mean to prove it to you.” She inclined her head with cold disdain, still standing before him. “I put out of the question everything that relates to our own two selves--though if you knew all the story of that year--”