provided amply with the conveniences of fashionable life.  A man of good family, good fortune, good health, good sense, good nature, whom it were hypercritical to charge with lack of soul.  “The first duty of a gentleman is to be a good animal,” and Miles Breeze performed it thoroughly.  Pinckney liked him, and he could have been his companion for years and still have liked him, except as a husband for Miss Warfield.

He could not but recognize his excellence as a parti.  But the race of Joan of Arc does not mate with Bon-homme Richard, even when he owns the next farm.  Pinckney used to watch the crease of Breeze’s neck, above the collar, and curse.

Coming upon Miss Austin one morning, she had said, “Come—­I want to introduce you to Miss War-field.”  Pinckney had demurred, and offered as an excuse that he was smoking.  “Nonsense, Charles,” said the girl; “I have told her you are coming.”  Pinckney threw away his cigar and followed, and the presentation was made.  Miss Warfield drew herself almost unusually erect after courtesying, as if in protest at having to bow at all.  She was so tall that, as Emily stood between them, he could meet Miss War-field’s iron-gray eyes above her head.  It was the first time in Pinckney’s life that he had consciously not known what to say.

“I was so anxious to have you meet Charles before he left,” said Emily.  Evidently, his fiancee had been expatiating upon him to this new friend, and if there is anything that puts a man in a foolish position it is to have this sort of preamble precede an acquaintance.

“An anxiety I duly shared, Miss Warfield, I assure you,” said he; which was a truth spoiled in the uttering—­what the conversational Frenchman terms banale.

“Thank you,” said Miss Warfield, very simply and tremendously effectively.  Pinckney, for the second time with this young lady, felt himself a schoolboy.  Emily interposed some feeble commonplaces, and then, after a moment, Miss Warfield said, “I must go for my ride”; and she left, with a smile for Emily and the faintest possible glance for him.  She went off with Breeze; and it gave Pinckney some relief to see that she seemed equally to ignore the presence of the man who was her acknowledged lover, as he trotted on a smart cob beside her.  That evening, when he went on the piazza, after tea, he found her sitting alone, in one corner, with her hands folded:  it was one peculiarity about this woman that she was never seen with work.  She made no sign of recognition as he approached; but, none the less, he took the chair that was beside her and waited a moment for her to speak.  “Have you found Miss Austin?” said the beauty, with the faintest trace of malice in her coldly modulated tones, not looking at him.  “I am not looking for Miss Austin,” said he; and she continued not looking at him, and so this strange pair sat there in the twilight, silent.