Petersburg for a while; then in London—was it? You ought to know, Clara, me dear—I'm not sure—Even after his accident they went on some sort of diplomatic mission to Madrid, or Stockholm, or somewhere, remember it perfectly." 

 "Colonel Burgoyne must have had money," said Mrs. White, tentatively. 

 "Some, I think," Barry answered; "but it was her father who was rich, of course—" 

 "Certainly!" approved Mrs. Apostleman, fanning herself majestically. "Rich as Croesus; multi-millionaire." 

 "Heavens alive!" said Mrs. Lloyd unaffectedly. 

 "Yes," Willard White eyed the tip of a cigar thoughtfully, "yes, I remember he worked his own patents; had his own factories. Paul Frothingham must have left something in the neighborhood of—well, two or three millions—" 

 "Two or three!" echoed Mrs. Apostleman in regal scorn. "Make it eight!" 

 "Eight!" said Mrs. Brown faintly. 

 "Well, that would be about my estimate," Barry agreed. 

 "He was a big man, Frothingham," Dr. Brown said reflectively. "Well, well, ladies, here's a chance for Santa Paloma to put her best foot forward." 

 "What WON'T she do to the Hall!" Mrs. Adams remarked; Mrs. Carew sighed. 

 "It—it rather staggers one to think of trying to entertain a woman worth eight millions, doesn't it?" said she. 

 

 

 CHAPTER V 

 From the moment of her arrival in Santa Paloma, when she stood on the station platform with a brisk spring wind blowing her veil about her face, and a small and chattering girl on each side of her, Mrs. Burgoyne seemed inclined to meet the friendly overtures of her new neighbors more than half-way. She remembered the baggage-agent's name from her visit two weeks before—"thank Mr. Roberts for his trouble, Ellen"—and met the aged driver of the one available carriage with a ready "Good afternoon, Mr. Rivers!" Within a week she had her pew in church, her box at the post-office, her membership in the library, and a definite rumor was 

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