But Madeleine _reviva_ did not suggest the philosopher to the
most charitable eye (not even to Mrs. McLane's), particularly as
there was a "something" about her--was it repressed excitement?--
which had been quite absent from her old self, however vivacious.

It was Mrs. Abbott, a lady of unquenchable virtue, whose tongue was
more feared than that of any woman in San Francisco, who first
verbalized what every friend of Madeleine's secretly wondered: Was
there a man in the case? Many loyally cried, Impossible. Madeleine was
above suspicion. Above suspicion, yes. No one would accuse her of a
liaison. But who was she or any other neglected young wife to be above
falling in love if some fascinating creature laid siege? Love dammed
up was apt to spring a leak in time, even if it did not overflow,
and--well, it was known that water sought its level, even if it could
not run uphill. Mrs. Abbott had lived for twenty years in San
Francisco, and in New Orleans for thirty years before that, and she
had seen a good many women in love in her time. This climate made a
plaything of virtue. "Virtue--you said?--Precisely. She's _not there_
or we'd see the signs of moral struggle, horror, in fact; for she's
not one to succumb easily. But mark my words, _she's on the way_."

That point settled, and it was vastly interesting to believe it
(Madeleine Talbot, of all people!), who was the man? Duty to mundane
affairs had kept many of the liveliest blades and prowling husbands
in town all summer; but Madeleine had known them all for three years
or more. Besides, So and So was engaged to So and So, and So and So
quite reprehensibly interested in Mrs. So and So.

The young gentlemen were discreetly sounded, but their lack of