he was by no means a free man even now.  Not all the powers of government could have detained him, we may be sure, had he considered such detention hurtful to the dearest matter in the world.  But Canning, in the peculiar circumstances, had concluded that a period of meditation was well, that absence made the heart grow fonder; and, if human calculations are worth anything at all, his conclusions were amply justified.  Through the days of their separation his chosen had constantly felt upon her the weight of that vast intangible pressure which pins each mortal of us, except the strong, to his own predestined groove.  Chiefly mamma, but many other things, too, had been pressing Cally steadily from thoughts of useful deeds, of which she knew so little, toward thoughts of Mrs. Hugo Canning, of which she knew so much.  For sixteen days, time and circumstance had played straight into her lover’s hands....

Hugo paused to be welcomed, on his way from the train, Olympian of mien, and beautifully dressed, he looked indeed exactly the sort of man who would shortly have use for the contents of the little velvet box, at this moment reposing snugly in his waistcoat pocket.  Still, he had turned up the collar of his big travelling-coat, and a slight hoarseness indicated that the throat trouble which had sent him south last year had returned with the first frost.

“I can draw on it for another six months’ furlough,” said he, meeting Cally’s eyes with gay meaning, “just as soon as I have need for such a thing.”

He had come this time as the open gallant, Lochinvar in all men’s sight.  If his lady desired ceremonies all in order, in sooth she should have them.  For the first week of his absence, he had strategically allowed himself to be lost in silence.  And then the postman and expressman had suddenly begun to bring reminders of him, letters, bon-bons, books even, flowers every day, and every day a different sort.  Cally greeted him wearing out-of-season violets from his own florist.  And by telegraph to the faithful Willie Kerr, the gifted wooer had arranged a little dinner for his first evening, to give his official courtship a background which in other days it had sometimes lacked....

“To my mind it’s a bore,” said he, as they parted.  “Please expect to give me a little time of my own afterwards.”

The occasion was no bore to Carlisle.  She recognized it as one of the triumphs of her life.  The material dinner could of course be no better than the New Arlington could make it; but then the New Arlington was a hotel which supercilious tourists always mentioned with pleased surprise in their letters home; that is, if they had any homes and ever thought of writing to them.  And Cousin Willie Kerr, having got “off” at three-thirty with carte blanche for the arrangements, that night proved that the world of Epicurus had lost an artist when he had turned his talents to commerce.  But of course Carlisle’s triumph lay not in glowing candle-shades or masses of red and pink roses, not in delicate viands or vintages, however costly.  She read her brilliance in the eyes and bearing of Hugo Canning’s guests.