She had placed his chair not quite beside hers yet designedly near, where the light of the chandelier in the hall would fall out upon him and passers could see that he was there:  she liked to have him appear devoted.  For his part he was too little devoted to care whether he sat far or near, in front or behind.  As the light streamed out upon him, it illumined his noble head of soft, silvery hair, which fell over his ears and forehead, forgotten and disordered, like a romping boy’s.  His complexion was ruddy—­too ruddy with high living; his clean-shaven face beautiful with candor, gayety, and sweetness; and his eyes, the eyes of a kind heart—­saddened.  He had on a big loose shirt collar such as men wore in Thackeray’s time and a snow-white lawn tie.  In the bosom of his broad-pleated shirt, made glossy with paraffin starch, there was set an old-fashioned cluster-diamond stud—­so enormous that it looked like a large family of young diamonds in a golden nest.

As he took his seat, he planted his big gold-headed ebony cane between his knees, put his hat on the head of his cane, gave it a twirl, and looking over sidewise at her, smiled with an equal mixture of real liking and settled abhorrence.

For a good many years these two had been—­not friends:  she was incapable of so true a passion; he was too capable to misapply it so unerringly.  Their association had assumed the character of one of those belated intimacies, which sometimes spring up in the lives of aged men and women when each wants companionship but has been left companionless.

Time was when he could not have believed that any tie whatsoever would ever exist between them.  Her first husband had been his first law partner; and from what he had been forced to observe concerning his partner’s fireside wretchedness during his few years of married life, he had learned to fear and to hate her.  With his quick temper and honest way he made no pretence of hiding his feeling—­declined her invitations—­cut her openly in society—­and said why.  When his partner died, not killed indeed but broken-spirited, he spoke his mind on the subject more publicly and plainly still.

She brewed the poison of revenge and waited.

A year or two later when his engagement was announced her opportunity came.  In a single day it was done—­so quietly, so perfectly, that no one knew by whom.  Scandal was set running—­Scandal, which no pursuing messengers of truth and justice can ever overtake and drag backward along its path.  His engagement was broken; she whom he was to wed in time married one of his friends; and for years his own life all but went to pieces.