knowledge that socially he was independent; was not, that is, subject to
retaliation. He led too roving a life to be moved by the threat of
unpopularity; a grandfather had bequeathed him a small but unshakable
inheritance.

As much, therefore, as any one can be in this world he was a free agent;
and the assurance of this makes a man very brave for either kindness or
unkindness, and, of course, extremely dangerous for either good or evil.
You will see, after a while, what I am driving at. Meanwhile, without
further comment, we can come directly to Mrs. Ennis, where she sat in
her drawing room, and to the night on which the incident occurred.

Mrs. Ennis, small and blond, and in a white evening gown of satin and
silver sequins that made her look like a lovely and fashionable mermaid,
sat in her drawing room and stretched her feet out to the flames of a
gentle woodfire. It was seven o'clock of a late April night, and
through an open window to her left came, from the little park beyond the
house, a faint breeze that stirred lazily the curtains and brought to
the jonquils, scattered about in numerous metal and crystal bowls, word
of their brothers in the dusk without. The room was quiet, save for the
hissing of the logs; remote, delicately lighted, filled with the subtle
odor of books and flowers; reminiscent of the suave personalities of
those who frequented it. On the diminutive piano in one corner, a large
silver frame, holding the photograph of a man in French uniform, caught
here and there on its surface high lights from the shaded wall-lamp
above. In the shelter of white bookcases, the backs of volumes in red
and tawny and brown gave the effect of tapestry cunningly woven. Mrs.
Ennis stared at the logs and smiled.

It was an odd smile, reflective, yet anticipatory; amused,