And yet he was not cast down, nor did his courage fail him.  Long before the darky’s obedient figure had disappeared his natural buoyancy had again asserted itself—­or perhaps the philosophy which always sustains a true gentleman in his hour of need had come to his assistance.  He fully realized what this last cowardly blow meant.  One after another his several belongings had vanished:  his priceless family heirlooms; his dogs; and now the home of his ancestors.  He was even denied further shelter within its walls.  But there were no regrets; his conscience still sustained him; he would live it all over again.  In his determination to keep to his standards he had tried to stop a freshet with a shovelful of clay; that was all.  It was a foolhardy attempt, no doubt, but he would have been heartily ashamed of himself if he had not made the effort.  Wesley, of course, was not a very exciting place in which to spend the winter, but it was better than being under obligations to Talbot Rutter; and then he could doubtless earn enough at the law to pay his board—­at least he would try.

He had reached the end of the walk and had already caught the glow of the overhead lantern in the hall of the Horn mansion lighting up the varied costumes of the guests as Malachi swung back the front door, revealing the girls in their pink and white nubias, the gallants in long cloaks with scarlet linings, the older men in mufflers, and the mothers and grandmothers in silk hoods.  There was no question of Richard’s popularity.

“Clar to goodness, Marse George, you is a sight for sore eyes,” cried Malachi, unhooking the clasp of the velvet collar and helping him off with his cloak.  “I ain’t never seen ye looking spryer!  Yes, sah, Marse Richard’s inside and he’ll be mighty glad ye come.  Yes—­jedge—­jes’s soon as I—­Dat’s it, mistis—­I’ll take dat shawl—­No, sah, Marse Richard ain’t begun yit.  Dis way, ladies,” and so it had gone on since the opening rat-a-tat-tat on the old brass knocker had announced the arrival of the first guest.

Nor was there any question that everybody who could by any possibility have availed themselves of Richard’s invitation had put in an appearance.  Most of the men from the club known to these pages were present, together with their wives and children—­those who were old enough to sit up late; and Nathan Gill, without his flute this time, but with ears wide open—­he was beginning to get gray, was Nathan, although he wouldn’t admit it; and Miss Virginia Clendenning in high waist and voluminous skirts, fluffy side curls, and a new gold chain for her eyeglasses—­gold rims, too, of course—­not to mention the Murdochs, Stirlings, Gatchells, Captain Warfield and his daughter, Bowdoin, and Purviance.  They were all there; everybody, in fact, who could squeeze inside the drawing-room; while those who couldn’t filled the hall and even the stairs—­wherever Richard’s voice could be heard.