With a lighter heart than usual on such occasions, Mrs. Abercrombie made ready for the grand entertainment, paying more than ordinary attention to her toilette.  Something of her old social and personal pride came back into life, giving her face and bearing the dignity and prestige worn in happier days.  As she entered the drawing-room at Mr. and Mrs. Birtwell’s, leaning on her husband’s arm, a ripple of admiration was seen on many faces, and the question, “Who is she?” was heard on many lips.  Mrs. Abercrombie was a centre of attraction that evening, and no husband could have been prouder of such a distinction for his wife than was the general.  He, too, found himself an object of interest and attention.  Mr. Birtwell was a man who made the most of his guests, and being a genuine parvenu, did not fail through any refinement of good breeding in advertising to each other the merits or achievements of those he favored with introductions.  If he presented a man of letters to an eminent banker, he informed each in a word or two of the other’s distinguished merits.  An officer would be complimented on his rank or public service, a scientist on his last book or essay, a leading politician on his statesmanship.  At Mr. Birtwell’s you always found yourself among men with more in them than you had suspected, and felt half ashamed of your ignorance in regard to their great achievements.

General Abercrombie, like many others that evening, felt unusually well satisfied with himself.  Mr. Birtwell complimented him whenever they happened to meet, sometimes on his public services and sometimes on the “sensation” that elegant woman Mrs. Abercrombie was making.  He grew in his own estimation under the flattering attentions of his host, and felt a manlier pride swelling in his heart than he had for some time known.  His bearing became more self-poised, his innate sense of strength more apparent.  Here was a man among men.

This was the general’s state of mind when, after an hour, or two of social intercourse, he entered the large supper-room, whither he escorted a lady.  He had not seen his wife for half an hour.  If she had been, as usual on such occasions, by his side, he would have been on guard.  But the lady who leaned on his arm was not his good angel.  She was a gay, fashionable woman, and as fond of good eating and drinking as any male epicure there.  The general was polite and attentive, and as prompt as any younger gallant in the work of supplying his fair companion with the good things she was so ready to appropriate.

“Will you have a glass of champagne?”

Of course she would.  Her eyebrows arched a little in surprise at the question.  The general filled a glass and placed it in her hand.  Did she raise it to her lips?  No; she held it a little extended, looking at him with an expression which said, “I will wait for you.”

For an instant General Abercrombie felt as if be were sinking through space.  Darkness and fear were upon him.  But there was no time for indecision.  The lady stood holding her glass and looking at him fixedly.  An instant and the struggle was over.  He turned to the table and filled another glass.  A smile and a bow, and then, a draught that sent the blood leaping along his veins with a hot and startled impulse.