ons as he
made, he was enthroned, as it were, in the most comfortable manner. Fur
sleigh robes were spread on the grass for a carpet, and the best of them
was used as a rug about his feet.

The majority of women are best pleased by the company of a man whom
other men admire. Trenholme had never descended to being, even in
leisure hours, a mere "ladies' man"; if he had been that he would not
have had his present place in this company. Yet he was not bored by
finding himself the only man among so many women; he knew most of these
women, their faults and their worthiness, far too well not to be at ease
with them, even if he had troubled to give a second thought to their
largess of kindliness. He had responded to their unexpected call to meet
them together because he had something to say to them, and he said it
that afternoon in his own time and in his own way. Had he needed to
borrow dignity to sustain their jubilant welcome, his purpose would have
lent it to him, and, for the rest, all his heart was overshadowed and
filled with the consciousness of Sophia Rexford's presence. He had not
seen her since the night in which they had walked through midnight hours
together. He could not touch her hand without feeling his own tremble.
He did not look at her again.

It was a pretty scene. The women, on their carpet of faded ox and
buffalo skins, were grouped on chairs and cushions. The foliage of the
maple tree above them was turning pink and crimson, shedding a glow as
of red curtains, and some of its leaves were already scattered upon the
ragged grass or on the shelving verandah roof of the wooden farmhouse.
The words that fell in small talk from the women were not unlike the
colour of these fading leaves--useless, but lending softness to the
hour.

"And _your_ sewing-party will quite bear the palm for this season, Mrs.
Rexford, quite the palm; for no other has been honoured by the presence
of the Principal."

It was Mrs. Bennett who spoke; her upright carriage, thin nose, and
clear even voice, carried always the suggestion of mild but obstinate
self-importance.

The birdlike little hostess, confused by the misapplied praise,
remonstrated. "'Tis Mrs. Brown," cried she, "who bears the palm."

Here the younger ladies, to whom nature had kindly given the saving
sense of humour, laughed a little--not too obviously--in concert with
the man thus lauded.

Then they all fell to talking upon the latest news that Chellaston could