"A charming fellow--in a way," she said judicially. "Frank, but a little too self-assured and self-centered. Exuberant, but possibly a bit cold. Yet--charming." "Oh," thought Randolph, "one of the cool boys, and one of the self-sufficing. Probably a bit of an ascetic at bottom, with good capacity for self-control and self-direction. Not at all an uninteresting type," he summed it up. "An ebullient Puritan?" he asked aloud. "That's it," she declared, "--according to my sense of it." "Yet hardly a New Englander, I suppose?" "Not directly, anyhow. From down state--from Freeford, I think he said. I judge that there's quite a family of them." "Quite a family of them," he repeated inwardly. A drawback indeed. Why could an interesting young organism so seldom be detached from its milieu and enjoyed in isolation? Prosy parents; tiresome, detrimental brothers ... He wondered if she had any idea what they were all like. It might be just as well, however, not to know. "And, judging from the family name, and from their taste at christenings, I should say there might be some slant toward England itself. A nomenclature not without distinction. 'Bertram'; rather nice, eh? And there is a sister who teaches in one of the schools, I understand; and her name is Rosalind, or Rosalys. Think of that! I gather that the father is in some business," she concluded. "Well, well," thought Randolph; "more than one touch of gentility, of fine feeling." If the father was in "some business," most likely it was some one else's business. "He sings," said Medora, further. "Entertained us the other Sunday afternoon. Cool and correct, but pleasant. No warmth, no passion. No special interest in any of my poor girls. I didn't feel that he was drawing any of them too near the danger-line." "Mighty gratifying, that. Where does one learn to sing without provoking danger?" "In a church choir, of course. He sang last year in the cathedral at Winnebago." "Oh, in Wisconsin. And what took us to Winnebago, I wonder?" "We were teaching in a college there." "I see." The talk languished. Basil Randolph had learned most that he wanted to know, and had learned it without asking too many direct questions. He began to pick at the fussy fringe on the arm of his chair and to cast an empty eye on the other fussy things that filled the room. The two had exhausted long ago all the old subjects, and he did not care to show an eagerness--still less, a continuing eagerness--for this new one: much could be picked up by indirection, even by waiting. Medora felt him as distrait. "Do you want to go up and see Joe for a little while before you leave us?" "I believe I will. Not that I've brought anything to read." "I doubt if he cares to be read to this time--Carolyn gave him the headlines this forenoon. He's a bit restless; I think he'd rather talk. If you have nothing more to say to me, perhaps you can find something to say to him."