The colour deepened in Walsh’s weather-beaten face, ruddy at all times from the park air, where he drove in every sort of weather; even his bald crown reddened. He was undoubtedly pleased; but he said, with an effort at lightness: “That’s just like Wayne; he’s a great joker.” Mrs. Blair flashed back upon them now, and charged them with treasonable confidences. The old banker had detached himself some time earlier and joined the circle which Colonel Craighill was addressing in his semi-oratorical key on the opposite side of the room. Mrs. Craighill and Walsh, having satisfied their own imaginary social hunger, remained with Mrs. Blair while she had her coffee. “You must come up and see the dance. All the prettiest girls have come. You must go up to the ballroom, too, Mr. Walsh. And I’m going to tell you now, for fear I forget it, how pleased I am that you came.” “You were kind to ask me. It has been a privilege to meet Mrs. Craighill.” Walsh stood up abruptly, bowed with a quaint touch of manner to each of the ladies, pleaded an engagement downtown, and left them. Mrs. Craighill was surprised to find herself turning her head to watch his burly figure through the door. * * * * * Wayne, roaming the house restlessly, drifted into the conservatory. It had been his sister’s habit to ignore what was practically ostracism as far as he was concerned socially. She realized the justice of his exclusion, but inwardly, with sisterly fidelity, resented it. There was a pathos in him that touched her; and as she saw him moving about alone, or joining some group where size minimized the danger of contamination, her heart ached for him. Wayne, as he lounged listlessly in the dining room door, saw Walsh in conversation with Mrs. Craighill a moment before Mrs. Blair rejoined them. Wayne stood just behind his father and several of Colonel Craighill’s auditors looked up and smiled, but without relaxing their attention. “You young people,” Colonel Craighill was saying, “can’t be expected to love this town of ours as we old folks do, who, you might say, fought and bled for it. Even now,” he continued, adjusting his plate carefully upon his knee and lifting his eyes dreamily, “the Civil War period is as remote in the minds of the new generation as the Wars of the Roses.” “Tell us a war story, Colonel!” cried a girl in the circle; “something really terrible--of how you led a forlorn hope, the flag lifted in one hand and your trusty sword in another, sprinting right over the ramparts at Saratoga or The Cowpens, or whatever the place was----” Colonel Craighill joined in the laugh at his own expense, and appealed to the group: “Doesn’t this prove what I was saying? You children know nothing of American history. I didn’t quite come over with Columbus, Julia. A few weeks ago I was talking to the president--I hadn’t really gone to Washington for the purpose but we got into it somehow----”