ly had a chance to
show one of them since she got here. What did she wear this evening,
Mr. Hatton?"

"'Pon my soul, I don't know. It was a dress, of course, blue or
green--or something."

"Yes--something, undoubtedly; but what was it like? Did it----?"

"The idea of asking me to describe a woman's dress! Why, I don't know a
poplin from a polonaise, though I suppose there's a distinction of some
kind. All I know is that this one shimmered and had things all over it
like No. 12 shot or Sioux moccasin beads, and it swished and rustled as
she walked through the hall and up the stairs."

"Oh, I know,--that long silk princesse--electric blue--that came from
New York last October and----Beg pardon. What?"

"Not you, Mrs. Taylor. Go on!" said Mrs. Miller, pleasantly. "Mr.
Hatton's servant has just called for him at the door. Wants to see him
a moment." And Hatton left the parlor with the major at his heels.

An hour later, after seeing Nellie Bayard home, and striving in vain to
be like his actual self, Mr. McLean hurried to his quarters. Just as he
expected, Hatton was standing in front of the open fireplace puffing
furiously at a chunky little brierwood pipe. He looked up from under
his heavy eyebrows as McLean came in, but said nothing. The occupant of
the room filled and lighted his own particular "cutty," and threw
himself into an easy chair, first divesting himself of the handsome
uniform "blouse" he had worn during the evening, and getting into an
easy old shooting-jacket. Then through a cloud of fragrant smoke the
two men looked silently at each other. It was Hatton who spoke first:

"Well, Mac."

"What's up, Hatton?"

"Missed anything to-night?"

"Nothing to speak of," answered McLean, coloring. He had the hatred of
his race for the faintest equivocation.

"Well, I have, and I thought you might have been visited likewise. My
bureau and dressing-case have been ransacked and I'm out a good two
hundred dollars' worth.

"The devil you say!"

"Have you lost nothing?"

"Five dollars or so,--as I said, nothing I wanted to mention."

"Why?"

"Well--because."

"A woman's reason, Mac."

"How do you know a woman's the reason?" asked McLean, almost fiercely,
as he started from the chair. He had only imperfectly heard his
friend's muttered words.

"I don't!--and that isn't what I said," replied Hatton, coolly. "But
see here,--now we've got down to it," and he stopped to emit two or
three voluminous puffs