almost entirely from observation. In the financial world he held a
clerical but valuable position; in the social world, being a gentleman and
a club man, he was invited everywhere; and, being very punctilious about
his calls and social obligations, he was always invited again. People in
recounting those who had been at balls, dinners, and the like, always
named the guests, then added, "And Hardisty, I believe." No one was ever
very sure. He had no intimate friends and no enemies--he was not noticed
enough to inspire dislike. But he was a man of positive opinion, which he
generally kept to himself. He had settled convictions, which he never used
to unsettle others. I had known him in his old home, Virginia; so perhaps
he felt more friendly toward me and talked more freely with me.

He was a man of a fine sentiment and a sensitive nature. He ought to have
been a poet instead of a clerical expert. He was intensely fond of
flowers, but never wore them. He used to say that it was heresy for a man
to wear a flower, and sacrilege for a woman to let them die on her breast.

When I told him about those Russian violets he seemed interested, but,
when I finished, astonished and grieved me by yawning in my face and
calmly stating that he considered the story trivial, far-fetched, and, in
short, stupid.

"There is," he said, "only one thing for us to do--have a drink and go to
bed--for the club closes in ten minutes." He ordered a small bottle of
wine, something I had never seen him drink, and talked in a light,
nonsensical strain, for him a most unusual thing. In telling the story I
had drawn out the little bunch of Russian violets and placed them on the
table. They were very much wilted, but the odor seemed stronger and
sweeter than ever. When we parted for the night I forgot the violets. The
next day, the twenty-ninth of December, I did not see John Hardisty,