to some women, the presence of a man—­not the man, but a man—­any man—­is what warm rain is to flowers athirst.  I am still marveling at this metamorphosis, when the door again opens, and another guest is announced—­an old man, as great a stranger to us as is the rest of the neighborhood, but of whom we quickly discover that he is deadly, deadly deaf.  For five minutes, I bawl at him a series of remarks, each and all of which he misunderstands.  He does it so invariably, that I come at length to the conclusion that he is doing it on purpose, and stop talking in a huff.  Then Barbara takes her turn—­Barbara can always make deaf people hear better than I do, though she does not speak to them nearly so loud, and I rest on my oars.  Owing to my position between the two couples, I can hear what is passing between Algy and Mrs. Huntley.

To tell the truth, I do not take much pains to avoid hearing it, for surely they can have no secrets.  They are sitting rather close together, and speaking in a low key, but I am so used to his voice, and her articulation is so distinct, that I do not miss a word.

“I think I had the pleasure of seeing you in church, last Sunday,” Algy says, rather diffidently; not having yet quite recovered from the humiliation engendered by his unfortunate remark.

She nods.

“And I you,” with a gently reassuring smile.

“Did you, really? did you see me—­I mean us?”

“Yes, I saw you,” with a delicate inflection of voice, which somehow confines the application of the remark to him.  “I made up my mind—­one takes ideas into one’s head, you know—­I made up my mind that you were a soldier; one can mostly tell.”

He laughs the flattered, fluttered laugh, that my rough speech was never known to provoke in living man.

“Yes, I am; at least, I am going to be; I join this week.”

“Yes?” with a pretty air of attention and interest.

“We—­we—­found out who you were,” he says, laughing again, with a little embarrassment, and edging his chair nearer hers; “we asked Musgrave!”

“Mr. Musgrave!” (with a little tone of alert curiosity)—­“oh! you know him?”

“I know him!  I should think so:  he is quite a tame cat here.”

“Yes?”

“Have you any children?” cry I, suddenly, bundling with my usual fine tact head-foremost into the conversation (where I am clearly not wanted, and altogether forgetting Barbara’s warning injunction) with my unnecessary and malapropos query.  For a moment she looks only astonished; then an expression of pain crosses her face, and a slight contraction passes over her features.  Evidently, she had a child, and it is dead.  She is going to cry!  At this awful thought, I grow scarlet, and Algy darts a furious look at me.  What have I said?  I have outdone myself.  How far worse a case than the fugitive wife whose destiny I was so resolute to learn from her injured husband!