"I beg your pardon, but-did you speak--to me?" I asked, turning to him
hesitatingly.

The old man met my eyes with an abashed smile.

"I guess I'm the party what had ought to be askin' pardon, stranger," he
apologized. "I talk to myself so much I kinder furgit sometimes, and do
it when folks is round. I was only sayin' that I wondered why 'twas the
good Lord give folks tongues and forgot to give 'em brains to run 'em
with. But maybe you didn't hear what she said," he hazarded, with a jerk
of his thumb toward the young woman in front.

"About Mrs. Whitermore? Yes, I heard."

His face darkened.

"Then you know. And she heard, too! 'Ordinary woman,' indeed! Humph! To
think that Betty Tillington should ever live to hear herself called an
'ordinary woman'! You see, I knew her when she was Betty
Tillington."

"Did you?" I smiled encouragingly. I was getting interested, and I hoped
he would keep on talking. On the platform the guest of honor was holding
a miniature reception. He was the picture of polite attention and
punctilious responsiveness; but I thought I detected a quick glance now
and then toward the roped-off section where sat his wife and I wondered
again--had he heard that thoughtless comment?

From somewhere had come the rumor that the man who was to introduce the