The noon sun of tournament day shone brilliantly over the village, drowsy no longer, for many vehicles were hitched at the curb, or moved leisurely along the leafy street: big, canvas-topped country wagons drawn by shaggy-hoofed horses and set with chairs that had bumped and jostled their holiday loads from outlying tobacco plantation and stud-farm; sober, black-covered buggies, long, narrow, springless buckboards, frivolous side-bar runabouts and antique shays resurrected from the primeval depths of cobwebbed stables, relics of tarnished grandeur and faded fortune. Here and there a motor crept, a bilious and replete beetle among insects of wider wing. Knots of high-booted men conversed on street corners, men hand-cuffed, it would seem, to their whips; children romped and ran hither and thither; and through all sifted a varicolored stream of negroes, male and female, good-natured and voluble. For tournament day was a county event, and the annual sport of the quality had long outstripped even circus day in general popularity.

At midday vehicles resolved themselves into luncheon-booths—hampers stowed away beneath the seats, disclosing all manner of picnic edibles—the court-house yard was an array of grass-spread table-cloths, and an air of plenty reigned.

Within Mrs. Merryweather Mason’s brown house hospitality sat enthroned and the generous dining-room was held by a regiment of feminine out-of-town acquaintances. At intervals Aunt Charity, the cook, issued from the kitchen to peer surreptitiously through the dining-room door with vast delight.

“Dey cert’n’y do take aftah dat fried chick’n,” she said to old Jereboam, who, with a half-dozen extras, had been pressed into perspiring tray-service. “Dey got all de Mefodis’ preachahs Ah evah see laid in de shade dis day. Hyuh! hyuh!”

“’Deed dey has! Hyuh! hyuh!” echoed Jereboam huskily.

The Mason yard, an hour later, was an active encampment of rocking-chairs, and a din of conversation floated out over the pink oleanders, whose tubs had achieved a fresh coat of bright green paint for the occasion. Mrs. Poly Gifford—a guest of the day—here shone resplendent.

“The young folks are counting mightily on the dance to-night,” observed Mrs. Livy Stowe of Seven Oaks. “Even the Buckner girls have got new ball dresses.”

“Improvident, I call it,” said Mrs. Gifford. “They can’t afford such things, with Park Hill mortgaged up to the roof the way it is.”

Mrs. Mason’s soft apologetic alto interposed. “They’re sweet girls, and we’re never young but once. I think it was so fine of Mr. Valiant to offer to give the ball. I hear he’s motored to Charlottesville three or four times for fixings, though I understand he’s poor enough since he gave up his money as he did. What a princely act that was!”

“Ye-e-es,” agreed Mrs. Gifford, “but a little—what shall I call it?—precipitous! If I were married to a man like that I should always be in terror of his adopting an orphan asylum or turning Republican or something equally impossible.”

“He’s good-looking enough for most girls to be willing to risk it,” returned Mrs. Stowe, “to say nothing of a widow or two I might mention,” she added cryptically.

“I believe you!” said Mrs. Gifford with emphasis. “We all know who you mean. Why any woman can’t be satisfied with having had one husband, I can’t see.”

The other pursed her lips. “I know some women with live husbands, for that matter,” she said, “who, if the truth were told, aren’t either. It’s lucky there’s no marriage in heaven or there’d be a precious mix-up before they got through with it!”

“Well,” Mrs. Gifford rejoined, “the Bible may say there’s no marriage or giving in marriage in heaven, but if I see Poly there, I’ll say to them, ‘Look here, that’s mine, and all you women angels keep your wings off him!’”

The listening phalanx relaxed in smiles. Presently Mrs. Mason said:

“I was at Miss Mattie Sue’s the other day. Mr. Valiant had just called on her. She was tremendously pleased. She said he was the living image of his father.”

“Oh, it never occurred to me,” cried Mrs. Gifford, in some excitement, “that she might be able to guess who the woman was at the bottom of that old duel. But Miss Mattie Sue is so everlastingly close-mouthed,” she added, with an aggravated sigh. “She never lets out anything. Why, I’ve been trying for years to find out how old she is. In the winter—when she was so sick, you know—I went to see her one day, and I said: ‘Now, Miss Mattie Sue, you know you’re pretty sick. Not that I think you’re going to die, but one never knows. And if the Lord should see fit to call you, I know you would want everything to be done right. I was thinking,’ I said, ‘of the stone, for I know the ladies of the church would want to do something nice. Now don’t you feel like giving me a few little details—the date you were born, for instance?’ I thought I’d find out then, but I didn’t. She turned her head on the pillow and says she, ‘It’s mighty thoughtful of you, Mrs. Gifford, but I like simplicity. Just put on my tombstone “Here lies Mattie Sue Mabry. Born a virgin, died a virgin.”’”

The doctor shut his office door with a vicious slam and from the vantage of the wire window-screen looked sourly across the beds of marigold and nasturtium.

“I reckon if Mrs. Poly Gifford shut her mouth more than ten minutes hand-running,” he said malevolently, “the top of her head’d fly from here to Charlottesville. What on earth can they find to gabble about? They’ve been at it since ten o’clock!”

The major, ensconced with a cigar in the easy chair behind him, flourished his palm-leaf fan and smote an errant fly. He was in gayest plumage. His fine white waistcoat was a miracle, his spats a pattern, and the pink in his button-hole had a Beau Brummelish air which many a youthful gallant was to envy him ere the day was done.

“Speaking of Damory Court,” he said in his big voice. “The dance idea was a happy thought of young Valiant’s. I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t do it to the queen’s taste.”

The doctor nodded. “This place can’t teach him much about such folderolings, I reckon. He’s led more cotillions than I’ve got hairs on my head.”

“I’d hardly limit it to that,” said the major, chortling at the easy thrust. “And after all, even folderolings have their use.”

“Who said they hadn’t? If people choose to make whirling dervishes of themselves, they at least can reflect that it’s better for their livers than cane-bottom chairs. Though that’s about all you can say in favor of the modern ball.”

“Pshaw!” said the major. “I remember a time when you used to rig out in a claw-hammer and

“with the bravest of us. Used to like it, too.”

“I got over it before I was old enough to make myself a butt of hilarity,” the doctor retorted. “I see by the papers they’ve invented a new dance called the grizzly bear. I believe there’s another named the yip-kyoodle. I hope you’ve got ’em down pat to show the young folks to-night, Bristow.”

The major got up with some irritation. “Southall,” he said, “sometimes I’m tempted to think your remarks verge upon the personal. You don’t have to watch me dance if you don’t choose to.”

“No, thank God,” muttered the doctor. “I prefer to remember you when you still preserved a trace of dignity—twenty odd years ago.”

“If dignity—” the major’s blood was rising now,—“consists in your eternal tasteless bickerings, I want none of it. What on earth do you do it for? You had some friends once.”

“Friends!” snapped the other, “the fewer I have the better!”

The major clapped on his straw hat angrily, strode to the door, and opened it. But on the threshold he stopped, and presently shut it, turned back slowly and resumed his chair. The doctor was relighting his cigar, but an odd furtive look had slipped to his face, and the hand that struck the match was unsteady.

For a time both sat smoking, at first in silence, then talking in a desultory way on indifferent topics. Finally the major rose and tossed his cigar into the empty grate.

“I’ll be off now,” he said. “I must be on the field before the others.”

As he went down the steps a carriage, drawn by a pair of dancing grays, plunged past. “Who are those people with the Chalmers, I wonder,” said the doctor. “They’re strangers here.”

The major peered. “Oh,” he said, over his shoulder, “I forgot to tell you. That’s Silas Fargo, the railroad president from New York, and his daughter Katharine. His private car’s down on the siding. They’re at the judge’s—he’s chief counsel for the road in this state. They’ll be at the tournament, I reckon. You’ll be there, won’t you?”

The doctor was putting some phials and instruments into a worn leather bag. “No,” he said, shortly. “I’m going to take a ten-mile drive—to add to this county’s population, I expect. But I’m coming to the dance. Promised Valiant I would in a moment of temporary aberration.”