Man, to speak in the huge tent erected on the Common for just that
purpose. From end to end the village was aflame with bunting and astir
with excitement, so that even I, merely a weary sojourner in the place,
felt the thrill and tingled pleasantly.

When the Honorable Jonas Whitermore entered the tent at two o'clock that
afternoon I had a good view of him, for my seat was next the broad
aisle. Behind him on the arm of an usher came a small, frightened-
looking little woman in a plain brown suit and a plainer brown bonnet
set askew above thin gray hair. The materials of both suit and bonnet
were manifestly good, but all distinction of line and cut was hopelessly
lost in the wearing. Who she was I did not know; but I soon learned, for
one of the two young women in front of me said a low something to which
the other gave back a swift retort, woefully audible: "His wife?
That little dowdy thing in brown? Oh, what a pity! Such an ordinary
woman!"

My cheeks grew hot in sympathy with the painful red that swept to the
roots of the thin gray hair under the tip-tilted bonnet. Then I glanced
at the man.

Had he heard? I was not quite sure. His chin, I fancied, was a trifle
higher. I could not see his eyes, but I did see his right hand; and it
was clenched so tightly that the knuckles were white with the strain. I
thought I knew then. He had heard. The next minute he had passed on up
the aisle and the usher was seating the more-frightened-than-ever little
wife in the roped-off section reserved for important guests.

It was then that I became aware that the man on my right was saying
something.