There were often men’s cards among them. A good many moths had begun to flutter round the flames of youth and beauty and wealth that burnt in the Colonel’s house on Folsom Street. In his constant visits he had formed a habit of looking over these cards as he stood in the hall taking off his overcoat. The frequency with which the card of Mr. Jerome Barclay lay freshly and conspicuously on top of the pile struck him unpleasantly and caused him to remark upon the fact to June. “Yes, Mr. Barclay comes quite often,” she said, “but so does Mr. Davenport and Mr. Brooks and Mr. Pierce, and several others.” She had changed color and looked embarrassed at the mention of his name, and the Colonel had spoken to Rosamund about it. The Colonel had begun to rely upon Rosamund, as everybody did, and, like everybody, he had come to regard her as much the elder of the two sisters, the one to be consulted and to seek advice of. Rosamund admitted that Mr. Barclay did come rather often, but not indeed, as June had said, oftener than several others. “Does he come to see June, or you, or both of you?” the Colonel had asked bluntly, looking at the last slip of pasteboard left by the young man. “Oh, June, of course,” said Rosamund, with a little quickness of impatience. “They nearly all come to see June.” “I don’t see what the devil business he has doing that,” said the Colonel, throwing down the card with angry contempt. “What’s he come round here for, anyway?” “Why shouldn’t he?” asked Rosamund, surprised at his sudden annoyance. “Well, he shouldn’t,” said the Colonel shortly. “That’s one sure thing. He shouldn’t.” And so that conversation ended, but the memory of it lingered uneasily in Rosamund’s mind, and she found herself counting Jerry Barclay’s calls and watching June while he was there and after he had gone. The visits of the young man were not indeed sufficiently frequent to warrant uneasiness on sentimental scores. He sometimes dropped in on Sunday afternoon, and now and then on week-day evenings. What neither Rosamund nor the Colonel knew was that he had formed a habit of meeting June on walks she took along the fine new promenade of Van Ness Avenue, and on several occasions had spent a friendly hour with her, sitting on one of the benches in the little plaza on Turk Street.