This upstart married Patricia Vartrey, for all the chatter and whispering, and carried her away from Lichfield, as yet a little dubious as to what recognition, if any, should be accorded the existence of the Stapyltons.  And afterward (from a notoriously untruthful North, indeed) came rumors that he was rapidly becoming wealthy; and of Patricia Vartrey’s death at her daughter’s birth; and of the infant’s health and strength and beauty, and of her lavish upbringing,—­a Frenchwoman, Lichfield whispered, with absolutely nothing to do but attend upon the child.

And then, little by little, a new generation sprang up, and, little by little, the interest these rumors waked became more lax; and it was brought about, at last, by the insidious transitions of time, that Patricia Vartrey was forgotten in Lichfield.  Only a few among the older men remembered her; some of them yet treasured, as these fogies so often do, a stray fan or an odd glove; and in bycorners of sundry time-toughened hearts there lurked the memory of a laughing word or of a glance or of some such casual bounty, that Patricia Vartrey had accorded these hearts’ owners when the world was young.

But Agatha Musgrave, likewise, remembered the orphan cousin who had been reared with her.  She had loved Patricia Vartrey; and, in due time, she wrote to Patricia’s daughter,—­in stately, antiquated phrases that astonished the recipient not a little,—­and the girl had answered.  The correspondence flourished.  And it was not long before Miss Musgrave had induced her young cousin to visit Lichfield.

Colonel Rudolph Musgrave, be it understood, knew nothing of all this until the girl was actually on her way.  And now, she was to arrive that afternoon, to domicile herself in his quiet house for two long weeks—­this utter stranger, look you!—­and upset his comfort, ask him silly questions, expect him to talk to her, and at the end of her visit, possibly, present him with some outlandish gimcrack made of cardboard and pink ribbons, in which she would expect him to keep his papers.  The Langham girl did that.

* * * * *

It is honesty’s part to give you the man no better than he was.  Lichfield at large had pampered him; many women had loved him; and above all, Miss Agatha had spoiled him.  After fifteen years of being the pivot about which the economy of a household revolves, after fifteen years of being the inevitable person whose approval must be secured before any domestic alteration, however trivial, may be considered, no mortal man may hope to remain a paragon of unselfishness.

Colonel Musgrave joyed in the society of women.  But he classed them—­say, with the croquettes adorned with pink paper frills which were then invariably served at the suppers of the Lichfield German Club,—­as acceptable enough, upon a conscious holiday, but wholly incongruous with the slippered ease of home.  When you had an inclination for feminine society, you shaved and changed your clothes and thought up an impromptu or so against emergency, and went forth to seek it.  That was natural; but to have a petticoated young person infesting your house, hourly, was as preposterous as ice-cream soda at breakfast.