As Ashley's joyous laughter rang out with its crisp, genial intonations, the listening exile in the attic again involuntarily smiled in sympathy, albeit the next moment he was frowning in jealous discomfort, with a poignant sense of supersedure. Here, under his own roof-tree--his father's home! Lieutenant Seymour protested with ardor, and in truth he was aghast at the prospect. He had taken so much pains. He had wrought with his whole soul. He had imagined that he had hemmed so well. Although he had lost all thought of Baynell in his interest in the exercises of the afternoon, now that Ashley was at hand to witness his discomfiture he became resentfully conscious of the presence of the other officer. He was suddenly mindful that he could not appear to distinguished advantage as the butt of a joke, however mirthful and merry, and this pointed the fact that he was not gracing the introduction here which he had earlier sought through Baynell's kind offices, and had been, as he thought, most impertinently refused. He forgot the grounds of the declination and took no heed of the circumstance that they included Ashley's request as well as his own. He did not realize that had it fallen to Ashley's lot to hem the towel and thread the needle and wear the brass thimble in a genuine sewing-circle, his genial gay adaptability would have accorded so well with the humor of the company that the jest itself would have been blunted. Its edge was whetted by Lieutenant Seymour's serious disfavor, the red embarrassment of his countenance, even the stiff lock of hair, at the apex of the back of the skull, that stood out and quivered with his eager insistence, as he rose erect and held on to the towel and looked both angrily and pleadingly at Miss Fisher. "I hope you will not be mutinous and disobedient," she said gravely. "I should be sorry to discipline you with the weapons of the society." She threatened to pierce his fingers with a very sharp needle, and as he hastily withdrew one hand, shifting the towel to the other, she opened a very keen pair of shears; as he evaded this she brought up the needle, enfilading his retreat. As he stood among a crowd of ladies, insisting that his work should be spared with a vehemence which most of them thought was only a humorous affectation and a part of the fun, he noted that Baynell was laughing too, slightly, languidly. Baynell was standing beside the low, marble mantelpiece, with one elbow upon it, the light from the flaming west full on his trim blond beard and hair, his handsome, distinguished face, the manly grace of the attitude. Seymour resented with an infinite rancor at that moment the contrast with his own flushed, fatigued, tousled, agitated, persistent, querulous personality. He could not have given up to save his life, and yet he could but despise himself for holding on.