Batty Langton was
the one moderately sober man of the company. He had not heard, in time
to interfere, the proposal to send for Ruth: it had started somewhere at
the Collector's end of the table. But trifler though he was, he thought
it cruel to the girl--a damnable shame--and pulled himself together to
prevent what mischief he might. At the same time he felt curious to see
her, curious to learn if these many months of seclusion had fulfilled
the Collector's wager that Ruth Josselin would grow to be the loveliest
woman in America. At Manasseh's announcement he faced about, and, with
a gasp, clutched at the back of his chair.

In the doorway stood little Miss Quiney. It was so ludicrous a
disappointment that for the moment no one found speech. Langton heard
Goodacre, behind him, catch his breath upon a wondering "O--oh!" and
felt the shock run down the table along the unsteady ranks. At the far
end a voice--Mr. Silk's--cackled and burst into unseemly laughter.

Langton swung round. "Mr. Fynes," he called sharply, "oblige me,
please, by silencing that clergyman--with a napkin in his mouth, if
necessary."

He turned again to Miss Quiney. "Madam," he said, offering his arm,
"let me lead you to a seat by Sir Oliver."

The little lady accepted with a curtsy. A faint flush showed upon
either cheek bone, and in her eyes could be read the light of battle.
It commanded his admiration the more that her small arm trembled against
his sleeve. "The courage of it," he murmured; "and Miss Quiney of all
women!"

She needed courage. The Collector's handsome face greeted her with a
scowl and a hard stare; he could be intractable in his cups.

"Excuse me, madam, but I sent for Miss Josselin."

She answered him, but first made low obeisance. "Ruth Josselin will
attend, sir, with all despatch. The sedan is capable of accommodating
but one at a time."

There stood an empty chair on the Collector's right. To set it for her
Mr. Langton had, as a preliminary, to stoop and drag aside the legs of a
reveller procumbent on the floor. The effort flushed him; but Miss
Quiney, with an inclination of the head, slipped into the seat as though
she had seen nothing unusual.

"And it gives me the occasion," she continued respectfully, as her eyes
passed over the form of young Manley opposite, who stood with his glass
at an angle, spilling its wine on the mahogany, "of expressing--I thank
you. . . . What? Is it Mr. Silk? A pleasu