“The man whom I could accept must be that sort of man,” she thought to herself. “And there is something degrading in the idea of standing and waiting for the doubtful chance that such a one may some day appear. Surely we girls were not born into the world just to stand in rows waiting to get married?” “And I am sure I don’t know what I should do without you if you did get married,” said Mrs. Boniface, driving back the tears which had started to her eyes, “so I don’t know why I am so anxious that it should come about, except that I should so like to see you happy.” “And so I am happy, perfectly happy,” said Cecil, and as she spoke she suddenly bent forward and kissed her mother. “A girl would have to be very wicked not to be happy with you and father and Roy to live with.” “I wish you were not cut off from so much,” said Mrs. Boniface. “You see, dear, if you were alone in the world people would take you up—I mean the style of people you would care to be friends with—but as long as there’s the shop, and as long as you have a mother who can’t talk well about recent books, and who is not always sure how to pronounce things—” “Mother! mother!” cried Cecil, “how can you say such things? As long as I have you, what do I want with any one else?” Mrs. Boniface patted the girl’s hand tenderly. “I like to talk of the books with you, dearie,” she said; “you understand that. There’s nothing pleases me better than to hear you read of an evening, and I’m very much interested in that poor Mrs. Carlyle, though it does seem to me it’s a comfort to be in private life, where no biographers can come raking up all your foolish words and bits of quarrels after you are dead and buried. Why, here we are at home. How quick we have got down this evening! As to your plan, dearie, I’ll just talk it over with father the very first chance I have.” “Thank you, mother. I do so hope he will let us have them.” And Cecil sprang out of the carriage with more animation in her face than Mrs. Boniface had seen there for a long time.