ummons.

The rustle of a woman's soft draperies broke in upon his reverie. He
turned around with his usual morning greeting upon his lips. If country
life had agreed with Peter Ruff, it had transformed his wife. Her cheeks
were no longer pale; the extreme slimness of her figure was no longer
apparent. She was just a little more matronly, perhaps, but without
doubt a most beautiful woman. She came smiling across the room--a dream
of white muslin and pink ribbons.

"Another forage bill, my dear Peter?" she demanded, passing her arm
through his. "Put it away and admire my new morning gown. It came
straight from Paris, and you will have to pay a great deal of money for
it."

He pulled himself together--he had no secrets from his wife.

"Listen," he said, and read aloud:

RUE DE ST. QUINTAINE.

PARIS.

DEAR Mr. RUFF, It is a long time since we had the pleasure of a visit
from you. It is the desire of Madame that you should join our circle
here on Thursday evening next at ten o'clock.

SOGRANGE.

Violet was a little perplexed. She failed, somehow, to recognize the
sinister note underlying those few sentences, "It sounds friendly
enough," she remarked. "You are not obliged to go, of course."

Peter Ruff smiled grimly.

"Yes, it sounds all right," he admitted.

"They won't expect you to take any notice of it, surely?" she continued.
"When you bought this place, Peter, and left your London offices, you
gave them definitely to understand that you had retired into private
life, that all these things were finished with you."

"There are some things," Peter Ruff said, slowly, "which are never
finished."

"But you resigned," she reminded him. "I remember your letter
distinctly."

"From the Double-Four," he answered, "no resignation is recognized save
death. I did what I could and they accepted my explanations, gracefully
and without comment. Now that the time has come, however, when they
think they need my help, you see they do not hesitate to claim it."

"You will not go, Peter? You will not think of going?" she begged.

He twisted the letter between his fingers and sat down to his breakfast.

"No," he said, "I shall not go."

That morning Peter Ruff spent upon his farm, looking over his stock,
examining some new machinery, and talking crops with his bailiff. In the
afternoon he played his customary round of golf. It was the sort of
day which, as a rule, he found completely satisfactory, yet, somehow or