“You are perfectly right about that,” said another.  “Whenever I see him about to waltz or two-step, I immediately remove myself from the scene, and pray for the girl he’s dancing with.  He is a train-wrecker, and the favorite resting-place for his heels is on some one else’s foot.  I’ve heard that he steps on his own feet, too, he’s so awkward, and I hope he does if it hurts him as much as he hurts me when he steps on mine.”

For Wilkins’s sake I am very sorry to say that this feeling towards him was invariable.  I never cared much for him myself, but I felt rather sorry for him when I perceived the persistent snubbing with which he was everywhere received.  He never seemed aware of it himself, happily, however, and accepted my merely sympathetic attentions with that superciliousness which always goes with conscious rectitude.

Conscious rectitude, I think, was Wilkins’s trouble.  He was good, and he was aware of it, but he was not content with that.  He wanted everybody else to be good.  I really believe that Wilkins could have carried on a Platonic love affair with an auburn-haired girl for ten weeks without an effort, he was so terribly good, which did not at all contribute to his popularity.  A fellow who talks about ritualism while walking in the moonlight with a sentimental woman, doesn’t count for much, and Wilkins was always doing things like that.  It was even whispered last winter when he went sleigh-riding with that fascinating little widow, Mrs. Broughton, that he let her do the driving, clasped his own hands in front of him, and talked of nothing but the privations of the missionaries in China, and never mentioned oysters or cold birds and a bottle.

“And worst of all,” snapped Mrs. Broughton, “he really seemed to enjoy it.  I never saw such a man!”

I have mentioned all these details for the purpose of indicating how unpopular Wilkins was and how it was that he had become so, for with this knowledge the reader will share the surprise which we all felt when Wilkins suddenly blossomed forth as the most popular man of Dumfries Corners.  It was really a knockdown blow to the most of us, for while we may have been jealous on occasions of each other, it never occurred to any of us to be jealous of the train-wrecker.

I didn’t like it when Araminta smiled upon Harry Burnham, but it was not injurious to my self-respect that she should do it, because Harry Burnham averages up as good a fellow as I am, and then Harry and I could drown our differences in the flowing bowl later on.  On the other hand, if Harry’s Fiametta cast side glances at me, of course Harry would be wroth, but he could understand why Fiametta should be so affected by the twinkle in my eye—­an affection by the way which has often got me unconsciously into trouble—­that she should for the moment forget herself and respond to it.