Viking," said Farwell.

Honora was struck by the appropriateness of the word.

"Viking--yes, he looks it exactly. I couldn't think. Tell me something
about him."

"Well," he laughed, lowering his voice a little, "here goes for a little
rough and ready editing. One thing about Chiltern that's to be admired
is that he's never cared a rap what people think. Of course, in a way,
he never had to. His family own a section of the state, where they've
had woollen mills for a hundred years, more or less. I believe Hugh
Chiltern has sold 'em, or they've gone into a trust, or something, but
the estate is still there, at Grenoble--one of the most beautiful
places I've ever seen. The General--this man's father--was a violent,
dictatorial man. There is a story about his taking a battery at
Gettysburg which is almost incredible. But he went back to Grenoble
after the war, and became the typical public-spirited citizen; built up
the mills which his own pioneer grandfather had founded, and all that.
He married an aunt of Mrs. Grainger's,--one of those delicate, gentle
women who never dare to call their soul their own."

"And then?" prompted Honora, with interest.

"It's only fair to Hugh," Farwell continued, "to take his early years
into account. The General never understood him, and his mother died
before he went off to school. Men who were at Harvard with him say he
has a brilliant mind, but he spent most of his time across the Charles
River breaking things. It was, probably, the energy the General got rid
of at Gettysburg. What Hugh really needed was a war, and he had too much
money. He has a curious literary streak, I'm told, and wrote a rather
remarkable article--I've forgotten just where it appeared. He raced a
yacht for a while in a dare-devil, fiendish way, as one might expect;
and used to go off on cruises and not be heard of for months. At last he
got engaged to Sally Harrington--Mrs. Freddy Maitland."

Honora glanced across the table.

"Exactly," said Mr. Farwell. "That was seven or eight years ago. Nobody
ever knew the reason why she broke it--though it may have been pretty
closely guessed. He went away, and nobody's laid eyes on him until he
turned up to-night."

Honora's innocence was not too great to enable her to read between the
lines of this biography which Reginald Farwell had related with such
praiseworthy delicacy. It was a biography, she well knew, that, like a
score of others, had been guarded as jealousl