“You need not be, sir,” said the other.  “Ludwell would have been the last man on earth to wish their spirit less, or their pleasure less.  It’s time and the weather, sir,—­Malplaquet feels it with all the world.  You must not be troubled, and you must not disturb my cousins.  I might ride on—­”

“No, no, Fair!  No, no!”

“Then I won’t.  Give me a room in the office—­I see the house is full—­and let Remus bring me supper there.  If you’ll come over later, sir, we’ll talk Embargo, and I’ll give you the up-county news.  I’ll to bed early, I think.”

“I wish I could come!  By George, it would be a relief to get away from all the bowing and scraping!  You’re sure you aren’t hurt, Fair?”

“Quite sure,” answered the other, with his old smile.  “I’ll go now to the office, if I may.  No need even to tell them I am here.”

Not to tell them was a thing more easily said than done.  Time was when Fairfax Cary would have been hailed delightedly, drawn at once to the centre of things, and kept there by the quick glances of young women, the emulative gaze of neighbourhood gallants, and the approving consideration of the elder folk.  His presence was wont to make itself felt.  Now, when the news spread that he was at Malplaquet, there was a break in the dance, a pause, a hush.  “What shall we do?” asked in distress the daughters of the house.

“Go on dancing,” was the reply.  “He’ll have no difference made.  But when the lesson’s over, you’ll remember, one and all, that he is here.”

In the far room of the office, quiet, and with a porch of its own, Cary got rid of the dust of the road, then ate the supper, bountiful and delicate, brought by Remus and presided over by the mistress of the house, who talked to him of Greenwood and of his father.  “The best dancer, Fair, and, after Henry Churchill, the handsomest man,—­with the air, you know, and always brave and gay and true as steel!  They said he was a good hater, and I know he was a good friend.  You take after him, Fair.”

“Ludwell did.”

“Yes, I know, I know—­but you the most.  Ludwell had much from your mother—­that strength and patience and grace were Lucy Meade’s.  Well, well, I cry when I think of it, so I’ll not think!  Is there nothing more you’ll have?  Remus is to wait upon you—­you hear, Remus?  And now, Fair, I’ll go back to the children”

Cary kissed her.  “Give them all three my love, and tell little Anne to mind her steps.  I’ve got a book to read, and I’ll go to bed early.”

He sat over his book until nearly ten, then extinguished his candles and stepped out upon the small, moonlit porch.  From the house, a hundred yards away, came the sound of the violin, and of laughter, subdued but genuine.  Cary drew a chair to the porch railing and sat down, resting his elbow upon the wood, his cheek upon his hand.  The violin brought the thought of Unity.  The laughter did not grate upon him.