The majority of women are best pleased by the company of a man whom other men admire.  Trenholme had never descended to being, even in leisure hours, a mere “ladies’ man”; if he had been that he would not have had his present place in this company.  Yet he was not bored by finding himself the only man among so many women; he knew most of these women, their faults and their worthiness, far too well not to be at ease with them, even if he had troubled to give a second thought to their largess of kindliness.  He had responded to their unexpected call to meet them together because he had something to say to them, and he said it that afternoon in his own time and in his own way.  Had he needed to borrow dignity to sustain their jubilant welcome, his purpose would have lent it to him, and, for the rest, all his heart was overshadowed and filled with the consciousness of Sophia Rexford’s presence.  He had not seen her since the night in which they had walked through midnight hours together.  He could not touch her hand without feeling his own tremble.  He did not look at her again.

It was a pretty scene.  The women, on their carpet of faded ox and buffalo skins, were grouped on chairs and cushions.  The foliage of the maple tree above them was turning pink and crimson, shedding a glow as of red curtains, and some of its leaves were already scattered upon the ragged grass or on the shelving verandah roof of the wooden farmhouse.  The words that fell in small talk from the women were not unlike the colour of these fading leaves—­useless, but lending softness to the hour.

“And your sewing-party will quite bear the palm for this season, Mrs. Rexford, quite the palm; for no other has been honoured by the presence of the Principal.”

It was Mrs. Bennett who spoke; her upright carriage, thin nose, and clear even voice, carried always the suggestion of mild but obstinate self-importance.

The birdlike little hostess, confused by the misapplied praise, remonstrated. “’Tis Mrs. Brown,” cried she, “who bears the palm.”

Here the younger ladies, to whom nature had kindly given the saving sense of humour, laughed a little—­not too obviously—­in concert with the man thus lauded.

Then they all fell to talking upon the latest news that Chellaston could afford, which was, that a gentleman, a minister from the south of Maine, had arrived, and by various explanations had identified the old preacher who had been called Cameron as his father.  It seemed that the old man had long ago partially lost his wits—­senses and brain having been impaired through an accident—­but this son had always succeeded in keeping him in a quiet neighbourhood where his condition was understood, until, in the beginning of the previous winter, the poor wanderer had escaped the vigilance of his friends.  It was partly on account of the false name which had been given him that they had failed to trace him until the circumstances of his tragic death were advertised.