The idle gossip about them had never affected Barker; rather he had that innate respect for the secrets of others which is as inseparable from simplicity as it is from high breeding, and he scarcely glanced at the different couples in his progress through the room.  He did not even notice a rather striking and handsome woman, who, surrounded by two or three admirers, yet looked up at Barker as he passed with self-conscious lids as if seeking a return of her glance.  But he moved on abstractedly, and only stopped when he suddenly saw the familiar skirt of his wife at a further window, and halted before it.

“Oh, it’s you,” said Mrs. Barker, with a half-nervous, half-impatient laugh.  “Why, I thought you’d certainly stay half the afternoon with your old partner, considering that you haven’t met for three years.”

There was no doubt she had thought so; there was equally no doubt that the conversation she was carrying on with her companion—­a good-looking, portly business man—­was effectually interrupted.  But Barker did not notice it.  “Captain Heath, my husband,” she went on, carelessly rising and smoothing her skirts.  The captain, who had risen too, bowed vaguely at the introduction, but Barker extended his hand frankly.  “I found Stacy busy,” he said in answer to his wife, “but he is coming to dine with us to-night.”

“If you mean Jim Stacy, the banker,” said Captain Heath, brightening into greater ease, “he’s the busiest man in California.  I’ve seen men standing in a queue outside his door as in the old days at the post-office.  And he only gives you five minutes and no extension.  So you and he were partners once?” he said, looking curiously at the still youthful Barker.

But it was Mrs. Barker who answered, “Oh yes! and always such good friends.  I was awfully jealous of him.”  Nevertheless, she did not respond to the affectionate protest in Barker’s eyes nor to the laugh of Captain Heath, but glanced indifferently around the room as if to leave further conversation to the two men.  It was possible that she was beginning to feel that Captain Heath was as de trop now as her husband had been a moment before.  Standing there, however, between them both, idly tracing a pattern on the carpet with the toe of her slipper, she looked prettier than she had ever looked as Kitty Carter.  Her slight figure was more fully developed.  That artificial severity covering a natural virgin coyness with which she used to wait at table in her father’s hotel at Boomville had gone, and was replaced by a satisfied consciousness of her power to please.  Her glance was freer, but not as frank as in those days.  Her dress was undoubtedly richer and more stylish; yet Barker’s loyal heart often reverted fondly to the chintz gown, coquettishly frilled apron, and spotless cuffs and collar in which she had handed him his coffee with a faint color that left his own face crimson.