of his health and strength.  At which Judge Pancoast had retorted—­and with some heat—­that Willits might take a dozen saddle horses and an equal number of sisters, and a bale of bandages if he were so minded, to the Springs, or any other place, but he would save time and money if he stayed at home and looked after his addled head, as no woman of Miss Seymour’s blood and breeding could possibly marry a man whose family escutcheon needed polishing as badly as did his manners.  That the fact—­the plain, bold fact—­and here the judge’s voice rose to a high pitch—­was that Willits was boiling drunk until Harry’s challenge sobered him, and that Kate hated drunkenness as much as did Harry’s mother and the other women who had started out to revolutionize society.

What that young lady herself thought of it all not even the best-posted gossip in the club dared to venture an opinion.  Moreover, such was the respect and reverence in which she was held, and so great was the sympathy felt for her situation, that she was seldom referred to in connection with Harry or the affair except with a sigh, followed by a “Too bad, isn’t it?—­enough to break your heart,” and such like expressions.

What the Honorable Prim thought of it all was apparent the next day at the club when he sputtered out with: 

“Here’s a nice mess for a man of my position to find himself in!  Do you know that I am now pointed out as the prospective father-in-law of a young jackanapes who goes about with a glass of grog in one hand and a pistol in the other.  I am not accustomed to having my name bandied about and I won’t have it—­I live a life of great simplicity, minding my own business, and I want everybody else to mind theirs.  The whole affair is most contemptible and ridiculous and smacks of the tin-armor age.  Willits should have been led quietly out of the room and put to bed and young Rutter should have been reprimanded publicly by his father.  Disgraceful on a night like that when my daughter’s name was on everybody’s lips.”

After which outburst he had shut himself up in his house, where, so he told one of his intimates, he intended to remain until he left for the Red Sulphur Springs, which he would do several weeks earlier than was his custom—­a piece of news which not only confirmed Tom Tilghman’s gossip, but lifted several eyebrows in astonishment and set one or two loose tongues to wagging.

Out at Moorlands, the point of view varied as the aftermath of the tragedy developed, the colonel alone pursuing his daily life without comment, although deep down in his heart a very maelstrom was boiling and seething.