And Mr. Montague explained politely that he was a comparative stranger in New York, and would not belong properly in such a volume.  But the agent was not satisfied with this.  There might be reasons for his subscribing, even so; there might be special cases; Mr. Montague, as a stranger, might not realize the important nature of the offer; after he had consulted his friends, he might change his mind—­and so on.  As Montague listened to this series of broad hints, and took in the meaning of them, the colour mounted, to his cheeks—­until at last he rose abruptly and bid the man good afternoon.

But then as he sat alone, his anger died away, and there was left only discomfort and uneasiness.  And three or four days later he bought another issue of the paper, and sure enough, there was a new paragraph!

He stood on the street-corner reading it.  The social war was raging hotly, it said; and added that Mrs. de Graffenried was threatening to take up the cause of the strangers.  Then it went on to picture a certain exquisite young man of fashion who was rushing about among his friends to apologize for his brother’s indiscretions.  Also, it said, there was a brilliant social queen, wife of a great banker, who had taken up the cudgels.—­And then came three sentences more, which made the blood leap like flame into Montague’s cheeks: 

“There have not been lacking comments upon her suspicious ardour.  It has been noticed that since the advent of the romantic-looking Southerner, this restless lady’s interest in the Babists and the trance mediums has waned; and now Society is watching for the denouement of a most interesting situation.”

To Montague these words came like a blow in the face.  He went on down the street, half dazed.  It seemed to him the blackest shame that New York had yet shown him.  He clenched his fists as he walked, whispering to himself, “The scoundrels!”

He realized instantly that he was helpless.  Down home one would have thrashed the editor of such a paper; but here he was in the wolves’ own country, and he could do nothing.  He went back to his office, and sat down at the desk.

“My dear Mrs. Winnie,” he wrote.  “I have just read the enclosed paragraph, and I cannot tell you how profoundly pained I am that your kindness to us should have made you the victim of such an outrage.  I am quite helpless in the matter, except to enable you to avoid any further annoyance.  Please believe me when I say that we shall all of us understand perfectly if you think that we had best not meet again at present; and that this will make no difference whatever in our feelings.”

This letter Montague sent by a messenger; and then he went home.  Perhaps ten minutes after he arrived, the telephone bell rang—­and there was Mrs. Winnie.

“Your note has come,” she said.  “Have you an. engagement this evening?”

“No,” he answered.

“Well,” she said, “will you come to dinner?”