weeks later, under the novel fascination of the new house,
as they called it, as if there were no other in the world.

Lapham drove there with his wife after he had set
Bartley Hubbard down at the Events office, but on this
day something happened that interfered with the solid
pleasure they usually took in going over the house.
As the Colonel turned from casting anchor at the mare's head
with the hitching-weight, after helping his wife to alight,
he encountered a man to whom he could not help speaking,
though the man seemed to share his hesitation if not his
reluctance at the necessity. He was a tallish, thin man,
with a dust-coloured face, and a dead, clerical air,
which somehow suggested at once feebleness and tenacity.

Mrs. Lapham held out her hand to him.

"Why, Mr. Rogers!" she exclaimed; and then, turning toward
her husband, seemed to refer the two men to each other.
They shook hands, but Lapham did not speak. "I didn't know
you were in Boston," pursued Mrs. Lapham. "Is Mrs. Rogers
with you?"

"No," said Mr. Rogers, with a voice which had the flat,
succinct sound of two pieces of wood clapped together.
"Mrs. Rogers is still in Chicago"

A little silence followed, and then Mrs Lapham said--

"I presume you are quite settled out there."