His eyes were as lustrous
as of old, his close, up-springing hair lay as thick as ever on his
crown; but the lower part of his face showed changes, born of the
years. Still lined, still looking just a little worn, it had gained
something in decision, gained infinitely more in sensitive refinement.
In Scott, the native clay was being replaced by translucent marble. In
Catia, it was hardening to something akin to adamant.

That night, Catia wasted but little time in the preliminary
conversation with her host who, as a matter of course, had taken her in
to dinner. Dennison was older than he looked, less impressed than he
seemed, and clothed impeccably. Catia dismissed him as a youngster of
scanty account, for he certainly was not formidable to look upon, and
her studies in the Napoleonic period had never brought her into close
acquaintance with his really epoch-making monograph. To be sure, she
had heard some one saying that he golfed extremely well; but as yet her
social education was far too rudimentary to allow her mind to grasp all
that that fact connoted. Therefore she turned her attention to Doctor
Keltridge a thought sooner than the strict laws of table talk allowed.
Of Doctor Keltridge she had heard already and often. He was their
senior warden, and she the rector's lady; they could not fail to have
many points in common. By way of discovering those points quite
promptly, Catia turned away from Dennison and ruthlessly cut in upon
Doctor Keltridge's amicable sparring with his other neighbour whom, as
it chanced, the good doctor had escorted across the portal of this
world.

"Oh, Doctor Keltridge!" Catia took great pleasure in the spontaneous
accent she contrived to fling into the words. "I do want--"

Startled, and a little bit surprised at the sudden voice above his
off-turned shoulder, the doctor bestirred himself and threw out a
vaguely searching hand. Then, as his hand found nothing before it but a
bank of flowers, he emitted one of the customary growls with which, to
his more intimate friends, he disclosed the fact that the motors of his
ego were temporarily stalled.

"Never is any butter at such a time!" he grumbled. Then he rallied to
the questioning note in Catia's voice. "What else can I get you,
madame?" he inquired benignly.

There was an instant's hush about the table. Olive, in the lee of the
clerical elbow and with young Dolph Dennison by her side, was palpably
in danger of hysterics. The others,