It was Tim. There was a sudden oppressive silence. Then he entered,
gravely bowing.

"Good evening, Mr. Warden," he said mockingly. "You have a delightful
way here of greeting the stranger at your gate, closing your ears to
his appeals and letting him break in. And Miss Warden too--why, this
is a surprise. I had supposed you'd be at a ball. And Mr.
Weston--delighted--I'm sure----"

"What, Mark?" There was genuine surprise in Tim's voice as he saw me
sitting quietly in the shadow. His mock elegance disappeared, and he
stood gaping at me. "I thought you'd gone to see Mr. Weston," he
blurted out.

"He came to see me instead," said Mary laughing. "And so did Mr.
Weston and Mr. Thomas, and so I hope you did. And if you sit down
there by Uncle Luther and be quiet, you shall hear about the famine in
India."

Tim just filled the settee. In my dark corner, in my comfortable
chair, I could smile to myself as I watched his plight and that of his
companions. I could not see Mary well, for the lamp and the long table
separated us, but I fancied that in her retreat she, too, was laughing.
Poor Tim had the end of the bench. He sat very erect, with his head
up, his eyes on the wall before him, his folded hands resting on his
knees, after the company manner of Black Log. Mr. Perry Thomas, at the
other end, was his counterpart, only the orator drew his chin into his
collar, furrowed his brow, and gazed wisely at the floor. He was where
Mary could see him!