"I have heard of cases of that sort before," he blurted out. "Mr. Giles told me of one only yesterday. The victim in this case was a young gentlewoman"--Abner's lips caressed this taking word--"a young gentlewoman from the South. She had come to one of those houses"--everybody, with the help of Abner's tone, saw the insolent front of the place--"to tell some dialect stories and to sing a few little songs. The mob--it was nothing less--could hardly be reduced to order. All those people had seen one another the day before, and they were all going to see one another the day to follow, yet talk they would and must and did. Engagements, marriages, acceptances, excuses, compliments, tittle-tattle, personalities--a rolling flood of chatter and gossip. Mrs. Pence took her people for what they were, apparently, and kept up with the best of them herself. Now and then her husband would do a little feeble something to quiet the tempest, and then the poor girl, half crying with mortification, would attempt to resume her task. With her last word the flood would instantly rise and obliterate her once more----" Abner's voice vibrated with a hot anger over this indignity put upon a fellow "artist." His view of literature was sacramental, sacerdotal. All should reverence the altar; none should insult the humblest neophyte. Mrs. Whyland indulgently overlooked his reckless use of names and liked him none the less; and the little lady who had suffered on a similar occasion, though in a different role, gave him a glance of thanks. "I know the type," said Mrs. Whyland. "It is commoner than it should be; others of us besides are much too thoughtless. You had too many at a time, my dear," she went on quietly. "A few scattered grains of gunpowder do no great harm, but a large number of them massed together will blow anything to ruin. Our motto should be, 'Few but fit,' eh? Or ought I to say, 'Fit though few'?" Abner stayed on, and finally the last of the ladies rose to go. Abner was just about to throw open the stable door, preparatory to giving his hobbies an airing, when a latch-key was heard operating in the front door of the house itself. Then came a man's quick step, a tussle with a heavy winter overcoat, and Whyland himself appeared on the threshold. He came in, tingling, exhilarated, cordial. His cordiality overflowed at once; he asked Abner to remain to dinner. Abner had not looked for this; a mere call was as far as he had meant to go. He parried, he evaded, he shuffled toward the door. "But where's your overcoat?" asked Whyland, looking about. "I didn't wear one." "On such a day as this!" exclaimed Edith. "I am strong," said Abner. "You'll find our winter stronger," said Whyland. "You are not out there in the country a hundred miles back from the lake. You must stay, of course." Still Abner moved toward the door. _Could_ any city man be as friendly as Whyland seemed? "It will be colder later on," he submitted.