"I will go," replied he, still carrying out his principle that it is always best to "face the music."
He did go. The few friends were about fifty—to celebrate the birthday of the commandant's lady. There were music, and dancing, and revelry; and Kate Portington was there, with her mother. He saw the fair girl; saw her smile as pleasantly and unconcernedly as though nothing had happened. He met her face to face; she bowed coldly, and passed on. Mrs. Portington was not quite so "chilly," but not at all as she had been in former times.
"Mr. Somers, we shall always remember you with gratitude, for the service you so kindly rendered us," said she.
"It is hardly worth remembering, madam, much less mentioning," replied Somers.
"It shall always be gratefully remembered, and cordially mentioned. You cannot yourself regret more than I do, that anything should have occurred to disturb the pleasant relations which formerly existed."
"I regret it very much, madam; but as I think I have done my duty to my country and to my friends, I must regret it without reproaching myself for my conduct in that which has proved so offensive."
"Was it your duty to sign that vile paper?" asked the lady, in excited tones.
"I think it was."
"I must take a different view of the matter; but, Mr. Somers, I shall still be interested in your success."
"Thank you, madam."