IT happened one evening, a few days later on, that Margaret found herself once more tête-à-tête with Louis Gaston. General and Mrs. Gaston had gone to a dinner, from which Margaret was not sorry to be excused.  
It was a cold and rainy evening in December, and the drawing-room, with its rich drapery and soft, deep Persian carpeting, was comfortable and warm, the wind, as it whistled and outside, adding to this effect. The bright lights which hung from the ceiling, together with the glowing fire in the grate, shed a perfect wealth of warmth and radiance around, and brought out the delicious of the fresh flowers, which filled a china bowl on a distant table. Louis, as on the former occasion, over the table, just within the library door, with his back toward the drawing-room, and Margaret, as before, sat in the deep arm-chair before the fire.
 
“This is the lucky chance that I’ve been waiting for,” said Gaston, turning to look at Margaret, as she settled herself with her book. “It is such a bad evening that I think we may hope for an from visitors, and in a few minutes I shall lay by my work and come and try some new music I’ve provided, if you agree.”
 
“I shall be charmed,” said Margaret, with ready . “I feel just in the humor for it. I the proposition, however, if you are going to sit up all night in consequence.”
 
“I will not, I assure you. It is not necessary, in the least. I’ll just finish off a small bit that I am engaged on at present, and then put the rest by until to-morrow.”
 
He returned to his work, and Margaret to her reading, and for a few moments the silence was unbroken, save by the sound of the wind and rain outside, and the soft little noises made by Louis with his pencil and rule.
 
Suddenly the door-bell rang, and, as before, they looked at each other regretfully. Louis was about to make the same proposition that his companion had responded to so on the former occasion, but a look at Margaret’s face checked him. An instinct which she scarcely understood herself, made it impossible for her to do a thing like that now. The fact that she was conscious of feeling a strong for Louis, restrained her from giving such a proof of it as this would be.
 
“I am sorry to give up the music,” she said simply, as Thomas went by to the door, unchallenged. “There is still room to hope that it is a call that will not concern us.”
 
For a moment this seemed likely, as there was a short with Thomas at the door before the visitor was admitted, and even after that he lingered to remove his overcoat and rubbers in the hall, with a deliberation that implied a degree of familiarity that Margaret could not identify as belonging to any visitor at the house whom she had yet met.
 
The next moment, as Louis Gaston and herself were both watching the door-way, Major King appeared, tall, gaunt, and awkward, but self-possessed.
 
His loosely hung, tall figure was clad in the shiny black “best clothes,” that poor Margaret knew so well, even to the cut of the long frock-coat, with its flapping tails behind and its bagging, unhindered fronts, between which was displayed, through a premeditated opening in the vest, a of white shirt-front, interrupted for an inch or so by the fastening of the upper buttons, only to reveal itself in more generous expansiveness higher up upon the Major’s .
 
Margaret’s quick eye at once perceived the of the whole situation, and warned her of the necessity of effort on the part of all to reconcile and overcome it. She went forward and received Major King with the perfect politeness which was as natural to her as breathing, and then turned to present Mr. Gaston, who, with the folding-doors of the library opened wide, was quite as if he were in the same room.
 
Gaston’s aspect, at the first glance she gave him, was absolutely startling to her. His whole bearing had changed. He had risen from his seat and turned toward the drawing-room, and was by the table, very and still. The expression of his face was repellant to the last degree, the brows were contracted in a slight but perceptible frown, and the lips were shut with a firm severity.
 
Margaret, as she mechanically named the two men to each other, could not help drawing a swift mental contrast between the gaunt Southerner, whose features were, in reality, the handsomer of the two, and the Northern man, in his quiet evening dress, and wondering why the latter looked so greatly the superior. Mr. Gaston’s attitude, despite its stiffness, was and impressive, and Major King’s, notwithstanding its ease, was slouching and ungainly.
 
But the most significant point of contrast came when each man, after his kind, acknowledged the introduction.
 
“Glad to meet you, sir,” said Major King, in loud, tones, and made a motion forward, as if to extend his hand. This impulse was repressed, however, by the short, bow with which the other responded, pronouncing the two words, “Good-evening,” with a chilling and clear-cut that formed the strongest possible contrast to the stranger’s and off-hand style of address. Margaret observed that he did not pronounce Major King’s name at all.
 
The young girl watched this interchange of greetings with a rush of conflicting emotions. Indignation, shame, and real pain fought for the predominance; but above all, she was conscious of an instinct which made her feel that the Southern man’s side was her side.
 
Mr. Gaston, as soon as the introduction was over, resumed his seat at the library-table, and went on with his work, turning his back squarely toward the drawing-room, an action which made it impossible for Major King to fail to realize that he was being and slighted. How this knowledge must be to a Southern man Margaret well knew, and she felt all her sympathies for Major King. With the keenest anxiety she watched to see what his course would be.
 
With a slight flushing of the cheek and a dark flashing of the eye, the tall Southerner seated himself in a delicate little chair, which he proceeded to tip backward, until his heavy weight caused the slight wood-work to creak . Then, in response to a brilliant leader respecting the weather, thrown out by poor Margaret in her , he launched into a fluent and somewhat strain of conversation, which soon made it evident that he could go alone. His voice, ! was loud and self-asserting, and his whole manner so and ill-bred that Margaret felt her spirit of growing fainter and fainter. One thing alone was clear to her, and that was her own course. She heard Major King with polite attention, and answered his remarks, when his would permit, with entire courtesy. But Margaret was on the rack the whole time as he talked on, loud, familiar, and irritating. Louis Gaston, seated just within the library door, heard every word—as indeed he must have been deaf not to do—and Margaret fancied she could detect an expression of angry in the very attitude of the well-set shoulders and the of the close-cropped head.
 
The minutes came and went, until they mounted up to hours, and still Major King sat and talked and laughed and told jokes with a ghastly , which his companion found it frightfully hard to respond to. Nine o’clock struck—ten, eleven, and still he did not go! It could not be that he was enjoying himself, for the poor girl felt that he was secretly as uncomfortable as herself, and, besides, he could never have had a less entertaining companion. She forced herself to attend, while he was giving an account of a play he had seen the night before, which must have been and impotent enough in the first instance, but which in the rehash was intolerable. She even tried to laugh when he came to the amusing parts, which he always indicated by laughing loudly himself. But it was torture to her.
 
All things have an end, however, an indisputable proposition with which Margaret had herself up repeatedly during this trying visit, and at last Major King rose to go. He was not going to be into a hasty retreat, however. Not he! He would take his time about it, and by way of a parting assertion of ease, he took up a handsome book from the table, and after reading the title aloud, with a jocular air and a somewhat pronunciation, he tossed it down so carelessly that the beautiful edition de luxe fell to the floor, with its delicate leaves crushed open beneath its heavy cover. He made no effort to recover it, until he saw Margaret stooping to do so, when he hastily picked it up, and flung rather than placed it on the table. When Margaret had shaken hands with him, and said good-night, with no of of the courtesy which had characterized her conduct throughout, she looked toward the library and saw that Mr. Gaston had risen and turned toward them, bowing to Major King with exactly the same motion and expression as that with which he had acknowledged their introduction. There was one difference, however. The little bow was given in perfect silence, and not one word of farewell was spoken. Major King responded by a short, nod, and a flashing glance which might have surprised the other, had he allowed his gaze to rest upon the visitor’s face long enough to perceive it.
 
There was a necessary delay in the hall over the rubbers and overcoat, which it seemed to Margaret that he put on with elaborate slowness, and then, at last, the front door closed behind Major King with a loud, contemptuous bang.
 
The was over, but it left poor Margaret with a heavy heart; she felt disgusted with everything and everybody.
 
“There’s not a pin to choose between them,” she was saying to herself, “only Mr. Gaston was the host, and Mr. Gaston is the more enlightened man, and therefore more bound to know better.”
 
She was too angry to look at Louis, and was leaving the room with a quiet “good-night,” when the young man arrested her by saying, in a tone of undisguised indignation:
 
“Twenty minutes past eleven o’clock; and a first visit too! This is intolerable!”
 
Margaret looked straight into his eyes, with a steady glance of scorn, that she made no effort to disguise.
 
“I dare say Major King was of the lateness of the hour,” she said, in a cool, high tone. “Good-night, Mr. Gaston.”
 
And she walked quietly out of the room, and mounted the stairs to her own apartment, angrier than she had been yet.
 
She closed the door behind her, turned the gas on full, and stretched herself out at her whole length on the lounge, clasping her hands under her head. Her thoughts were too confused to be , but the one that predominated over all the rest was that she could never like Louis Gaston again. She had the feeling that would have made her wish to fight him had she been a man.
 
Major King’s conduct had been in the highest degree , but he had been led on to it by the slights the other offered him. And then, too, she had a keen perception of what Major King’s opportunities had probably been. He belonged to the class of Southerners who had lost everything by the war, and had probably spent most of the years of his manhood in a small village, living in a style that formed a strong contrast to the of his youth. His bearing, during this trying evening, she attributed much to ignorance and much to the stinging sense of failure and defeat, which the war had left on so many Southern men. Added to all this, there must have been a keen indignation at the unjustness and with which he was treated by a man from whom he had a right to expect common civility at least.
 
But with Louis Gaston it was different. He could not plead the excuse of and ignorance. He was a cultivated man of the world, who had all the advantages of education, travel, and wealth; and, more than all, his offence was , in a Southern mind, because it had been committed against the stranger within the gates.
 
“Nothing can ever wipe it out,” she muttered to herself; “the longer one thinks of it the worse it grows. There are half-a-dozen palliations for Major King, but for Mr. Gaston there is not one. I am certain that Major King, in spite of it all, would have been of treating his worst enemy so. What a , humiliating experience!”
 
And, with a gesture of disgust, Miss Trevennon rose and walked to the dressing-table, beginning slowly to unfasten her little , in preparation for the night’s rest, which, in her state of mind, was very long in coming to her.
 
Louis Gaston, meanwhile, left to his own reflections, grew conscious of the fact that he was feeling very uncomfortable. The sensation was not by any means a new one. He had harbored it, uninterruptedly, for the past three hours, but it had undergone a change in kind and degree. He was relieved from the intolerable of Major King’s presence, but unrest in another form had entered his breast; and though its nature was less and aggressive, it somehow seemed to strike deeper.
 
He could not be blind to the fact that he had offended Margaret, whose conduct during the evening had really puzzled him as much as his had puzzled her. How could she bear to be pleasant and civil to a man like that? It made him angry to think of the fellow’s daring even to speak to her, and he assured himself that he had been right to pursue a course which would free her from such an intrusion in future. And yet, under it all, there was a , disturbing little consciousness that he had somehow been in the wrong. It was the first time in his life that he had had occasion to distrust his social methods, and he would not quite own to such a state of mind now. There was, moreover, another feeling at work within his breast, which caused him to determine that he would make some , if necessary, to reinstate himself in this young lady’s regard. It was a thing which he knew he had heretofore enjoyed, and he felt a strong to giving it up.
 
Neither were Louis Gaston’s as and as usual that night. He made some effort to return to his work, but he found it impossible to fix his attention on it, and so to bed to wait for the sleep that was so strangely long in coming.