"If he is the scoundrel I think him, he will send me a summons, in order to drag my wife's name before the public," thought General Harborough; nor was he mistaken, for the summons was served within two days of the assault. It was delivered at the villa in the General's absence. He had started for Bath by an early train that morning, in order to attend the funeral of an old friend and brother officer upon the following day. He had an idea of going on from Bath to London, to see his solicitors, and to execute the codicil which was to diminish Lady Valeria's future means. At the station he met Bothwell Grahame, who was on his way to Dawlish. There had been a reserve in the young man's manner of late which had puzzled the General. He had been inclined to put down the change to a deterioration in Grahame's character, a gradual going to the bad, for he had an instinctive prejudice against a soldier who could voluntarily abandon his profession. It was bad enough for a man to be thrown out of active service in the prime of life, in accordance with new-fangled rules and regulations; but that a young man should abandon soldiering for any other career seemed to General Harborough at once inexplicable and discreditable. "Bothwell Grahame is getting a regular hang-dog look," thought the General; "and I am not surprised at it. He has thrown away splendid opportunities, and is leading an idle, good-for-nothing life." And now the General knew the meaning of that hang-dog look, that reserved manner which had struck him as the outward sign of an inward deterioration in the man he had loved as a son. He could understand what agonies of shame and remorse Bothwell must have felt when their hands touched, what self-contempt was expressed in that cloudy brow and furtive glance. What, then, was his surprise this morning to see Bothwell approach him with a beaming countenance, holding out the hand of friendship! "My dear General, I am so glad to see you. It is such an age since we met," he exclaimed, in cheeriest tones. Yes, there was the old ring in his voice, the old heartiness which had made Bothwell so different from the race of languid foplings--the haw-haw tribe. "Yes, it is some time since we met," answered the General coldly; "but I daresay you and my wife have seen each other pretty frequently during that time. You are the kind of man our neighbours call _l'ami de la maison_. We English have a less honourable name for the species. We call them tame cats." Bothwell reddened, and then grew pale. Never before had those kindly eyes of the veteran's looked at him as they looked to-day. Never before had General Harborough addressed him in a tone which sounded like deliberate insult. "I have been proud to be Lady Valeria's guest," he said quietly, his heart beating furiously the while, "and have never considered myself degraded by any attention I was able to show to her. I hope she is well." "She is very well. How long is it since you were at Fox Hill?"