ad possessed. She
had always been a gentle, sensitive creature, and was almost helpless
before the wishes of others.

After all, it had been a long time since Margaret had been able to
force the ring even upon her little finger, but she had derived a small
pleasure from the reflection that she owned it in its faded velvet box,
hidden under laces in her top bureau drawer. She did not like to see
it blazing forth from the tie of this very ordinary young man who had
married Camille. Margaret had a gentle, high-bred contempt for Jack
Desmond, but at the same time a vague fear of him. Jack had a measure of
unscrupulous business shrewdness, which spared nothing and nobody, and
that in spite of the fact that he had not succeeded.

Margaret owned the old Lee place, which had been magnificent, but of
late years the expenditures had been reduced and it had deteriorated.
The conservatories had been closed. There was only one horse in
the stable. Jack had bought him. He was a wornout trotter with legs
carefully bandaged. Jack drove him at reckless speed, not considering
those slender, braceleted legs. Jack had a racing-gig, and when in it,
with striped coat, cap on one side, cigarette in mouth, lines held taut,
skimming along the roads in clouds of dust, he thought himself the man
and true sportsman which he was not. Some of the old Lee silver had paid
for that waning trotter.

Camille adored Jack, and cared for no associations, no society, for
which he was not suited. Before the trotter was bought she told Margaret
that the kind of dinners which she was able to give in Fairhill were
awfully slow. "If we could afford to have some men out from the city,
some nice fellers that Jack knows, it would be worth while," said she,
"but we have grown so hard up we can't do a thing to make it worth their
while. Those men haven't got any use for a back-number old place like
this. We can't take them round in autos, nor give them a chance at
cards, for Jack couldn't pay if he lost, and Jack is awful honorable. We
can't have the right kind of folks here for any fun. I don't propose
to ask the rector and his wife, and old Mr. Harvey, or people like the
Leaches."

"The Leaches are a very good old family," said Margaret, feebly.

"I don't care for good old families when they are so slow," retorted
Camille. "The fellers we could have here, if we were rich enough, come
from fine families, but they are up-to-date. It's no use hanging on to
old si