he two favored the parting guests with an
occasional impromptu song and waved genial good-byes to the ladies. And,
when Mrs. Short attempted to walk by with her head in the air, as though
the judge were in an adjoining county, he so far forgot his judicial
dignity as to chuck her under the chin, an act which was applauded with
much boyish delight by Mr. Cooke, and a remark which it is just as well
not to repeat. The judge desired to spend the night at Mohair, but was
afterwards taken home by main force, and the next day his meals were
brought up to him. It is small wonder that Mrs. Short was looked upon as
the head of the outraged party. The Ten were only spoken of in whispers.
Three of them had been unable to come to time when the last figure was
called, whereupon their partners were whisked off the scene without
so much as being allowed to pay their respects to the hostess. Besides
these offences, there were other minor barbarisms too numerous to
mention.

Although Mrs. Short's party was all-powerful at Asquith, there were some
who, for various reasons, refused to agree in the condemnation of Mr.
Cooke. Judge Short and the other gentlemen in his position were, of
course, restricted, but Mr. Trevor came out boldly in the face of severe
criticism and declared that his daughter should accept any invitation
from Mrs. Cooke that she chose, and paid but little attention to the
coolness resulting therefrom. He was fast getting a reputation for
oddity. And the Celebrity tried to conciliate both parties, and
succeeded, though none but he could have done it. At first he was eyed
with suspicion and disgust as he drove off to Mohair in his Hempstead
cart, and was called many hard names. But he had a way about him which
won them in the end.

A few days later I ran over to Mohair and found my client with the
colored Sunday supplement of a Chicago newspaper spread out before him,
eyeing the page with something akin to childish delight. I discovered
that it was a picture of his own hunt ball, and as a bit of color it was
marvellous, the scarlet coats being very much in evidence.

"There, old man!" he exclaimed. "What do you think of that? Something of
a sendoff, eh?" And he pointed to a rather stout and important gentleman
in the foreground. "That's me!" he said proudly, "and they wouldn't do
that for Farquhar Fenelon Cooke in Philadelphia."

"A prophet is without honor in his own country," I remarked.

"I don't set up for a pro