spring from a buggy to which was harnessed a fractious horse, which a negro stable-boy drove fearlessly.  A valiant carpet-knight, skilled in all parlor exercises, great at whist or euchre, a dream of a dancer, unexcelled in Cakewalk or “coon” impersonations, for which he was in large social demand, Ellis had seen him kick an inoffensive negro out of his path and treat a poor-white man with scant courtesy.  He suspected Delamere of cheating at cards, and knew that others entertained the same suspicion.  For while regular in his own habits,—­his poverty would not have permitted him any considerable extravagance,—­Ellis’s position as a newspaper man kept him in touch with what was going on about town.  He was a member, proposed by Carteret, of the Clarendon Club, where cards were indulged in within reasonable limits, and a certain set were known to bet dollars in terms of dimes.

Delamere was careless, too, about money matters.  He had a habit of borrowing, right and left, small sums which might be conveniently forgotten by the borrower, and for which the lender would dislike to ask.  Ellis had a strain of thrift, derived from a Scotch ancestry, and a tenacious memory for financial details.  Indeed, he had never had so much money that he could lose track of it.  He never saw Delamere without being distinctly conscious that Delamere owed him four dollars, which he had lent at a time when he could ill afford to spare it.  It was a prerogative of aristocracy, Ellis reflected, to live upon others, and the last privilege which aristocracy in decay would willingly relinquish.  Neither did the aristocratic memory seem able to retain the sordid details of a small pecuniary transaction.

No doubt the knowledge that Delamere was the favored lover of Miss Pemberton lent a touch of bitterness to Ellis’s reflections upon his rival.  Ellis had no grievance against the “aristocracy” of Wellington.  The “best people” had received him cordially, though his father had not been of their caste; but Ellis hated a hypocrite, and despised a coward, and he felt sure that Delamere was both.  Otherwise he would have struggled against his love for Clara Pemberton.  His passion for her had grown with his appreciation of Delamere’s unworthiness.  As a friend of the family, he knew the nature and terms of the engagement, and that if the marriage took place at all, it would not be for at least a year.  This was a long time,—­many things might happen in a year, especially to a man like Tom Delamere.  If for any reason Delamere lost his chance, Ellis meant to be next in the field.  He had not made love to Clara, but he had missed no opportunity of meeting her and making himself quietly and unobtrusively agreeable.

On the day after this encounter with Delamere on the stairs of the Chronicle office, Ellis, while walking down Vine Street, met old Mrs. Ochiltree.  She was seated in her own buggy, which was of ancient build and pattern, driven by her colored coachman and man of all work.