tered herself was not less attractive. But Presbury interposed an
emphatic veto.

"You'll wear full evening dress," said he. "Bare neck and arms for men
like Bill Siddall. They want to see what they're getting."

Mildred flushed scarlet and her lips trembled as though she were about
to cry. In fact, her emotion was altogether shame--a shame so poignant
that even Presbury was abashed, and mumbled something apologetic.
Nevertheless she wore a low-neck dress on Thursday evening, one as
daring as the extremely daring fashions of that year permitted an
unmarried woman to wear. It seemed to her that Siddall was still more
costly and elegant-looking than before, though this may have been due
to the fact that he always created an impression that in the retrospect
of memory seemed exaggerated. It seemed impossible that anyone could
be so clean, so polished and scoured, so groomed and tailored, so
bedecked, so high-heeled and loftily coiffed. His mean little
countenance with its grotesquely waxed mustache and imperial wore an
expression of gracious benignity that assured his guests they need
anticipate no disagreeable news.

"I owe you an apology for keeping you in suspense so long," said he.
"I'm a very busy man, with interests in all parts of the world. I keep
house--some of 'em bigger than this--open and going in sis different
places. I always like to be at home wherever my business takes me."

Mrs. Presbury rolled her eyes. "Isn't that WONDERFUL!" she exclaimed.
"What an interesting life you must lead!"

"Oh, so--so," replied the general. "But I get awful lonesome. I'm
naturally a domestic man. I don't care for friends. They're expensive
and dangerous. A man in my position is like a king. He can't have
friends. So, if he hasn't got a family, he hasn't got noth--anything."

"Nothing like home life," said Presbury.

"Yes, indeed," cried Mrs. Presbury.

The little general smiled upon Mildred, sitting pale and silent, with
eyes downcast. "Well, I don't intend to be alone much longer, if I can
help it," said he. "And I may say that I can make a woman happy if
she's the right sort--if she has sense enough to appreciate a good
husband." This last he said sternly, with more than a hint of his past
matrimonial misfortunes in his frown and in his voice. "The trouble
with a great many women is that they're fools--flighty, ungrateful
fools. If I married a woman like that, I'd make short work of her."

"And sh