though his offence was forgotten, their old-time relations were not,
for one instant, to be resumed.

Later on, while Page was thrumming her mandolin, Landry whistling a
"second," Mrs. Cressler took occasion to remark to Laura:

"I was reading the Paris letter in the 'Inter-Ocean' to-day, and I saw
Mr. Corthell's name on the list of American arrivals at the
Continental. I guess," she added, "he's going to be gone a long time. I
wonder sometimes if he will ever come back. A fellow with his talent, I
should imagine would find Chicago--well, less congenial, anyhow, than
Paris. But, just the same, I do think it was mean of him to break up
our play by going. I'll bet a cookie that he wouldn't take part any
more just because you wouldn't. He was just crazy to do that love scene
in the fourth act with you. And when you wouldn't play, of course he
wouldn't; and then everybody seemed to lose interest with you two out.
'J.' took it all very decently though, don't you think?"

Laura made a murmur of mild assent.

"He was disappointed, too," continued Mrs. Cressler. "I could see that.
He thought the play was going to interest a lot of our church people in
his Sunday-school. But he never said a word when it fizzled out. Is he
coming to-night?"

"Well I declare," said Laura. "How should I know, if you don't?"

Jadwin was an almost regular visitor at the Cresslers' during the first
warm evenings. He lived on the South Side, and the distance between his
home and that of the Cresslers was very considerable. It was seldom,
however, that Jadwin did not drive over. He came in his double-seated
buggy, his negro coachman beside him the two coach dogs, "Rex" and
"Rox," trotting under the rear axle. His horses were not showy, nor
were they made conspicuous by elaborate boots, bandages, and all the
other solemn paraphernalia of the stable, yet men upon the sidewalks,
amateurs, breeders, and the like--men who understood good stock--never
failed to stop to watch the team go by, heads up, the check rein
swinging loose, ears all alert, eyes all alight, the breath deep,
strong, and slow, and the stride, machine-like, even as the swing of a
metronome, thrown out from the shoulder to knee, snapped on from knee
to fetlock, from fetlock to pastern, finishing squarely, beautifully,
with the thrust of the hoof, planted an instant, then, as it were,
flinging the roadway behind it, snatched up again, and again cast
forward.

On these occasions Jad