“How lovely! I do think real friendship is the grandest thing--and so rare.” “No doubt about that, Mrs. Merwent.” Jim smiled once more. “Now I believe you’re making fun of me, Mr. Sprague.” “I can assure you I’m not, Mrs. Merwent.” “I envy them, you know. I’ve been so lonely since my--trouble.” “I can quite imagine,” said Jim sympathetically. “But now you are with your children and----” “Yes,” she interrupted hastily, “and isn’t John just the dearest fellow! I do so regret our misunderstanding. Though I was not to blame for it,” she added. “John’s a good sort,” Jim agreed. “And Lucy,” Mrs. Merwent now smiled. “You haven’t said anything about Lucy.” “We weren’t talking about her.” “Well, she’s a dear girl, although--why I’ve burnt my slipper!” she broke off. “Do you know, Mr. Sprague, that I have the hardest time to get shoes narrow enough. It seems that most women, especially here in the North, have big feet. Lucy takes after her father. He was a Northern man.” Jim seemed amused, and Mrs. Merwent concluded hastily. “But here I am chattering on about _me_,” she said, “and you haven’t told me anything about yourself.” “There isn’t much to tell, Mrs. Merwent.” “Well, if you could hear Lucy and John talk about you you wouldn’t be so modest.” “Neither of them has much critical acumen in matters of friendship.” “But you are their only intimate friend.” Jim laughed. “That’s just it,” he asserted. “You cynical thing!” she reproved banteringly. “I know you men with no illusions. I declare I’m afraid of you.” “Not dangerous--believe me, Mrs. Merwent.” “No. You despise us women too much to take us seriously.” “Some of the biggest individuals I have met have been women,” Jim answered gravely. “Lucy, for instance.” “Yes, Lucy,” agreed Jim. “Well, I’m not much like her. Do you think so?” “Our acquaintance is pretty brief to justify a fundamental judgment of that sort.” “Oh, I’m not at all intellectual or deep. I can’t talk about Bergson and books like _Jean Christophe_ that Lucy reads. I’m afraid you won’t like poor little me much.” “There are lots of people I don’t like who talk about philosophy and musical novels.” His tone was pleasant. “Well, I have a feeling already that you don’t like me very well.” “I don’t think I could help liking Lucy’s mother,” Jim answered without conviction. “Thanks! I don’t know that I care to be liked because I’m Lucy’s mother,” she replied, laughing nervously. “Your liking seems to be confined to Lucy and things belonging to her. That’s not very complimentary to the rest of us.” Jim, who had been staring at the empty grate, glanced up and met Mrs. Merwent’s eyes. Her gaze dropped. “Yes, I do like Lucy, and the people she likes,” he acknowledged frankly, “and if anybody liked me on the same recommendation I should feel honored. She is a person any man or woman must feel it a great privilege to know.” Mrs. Merwent arched her brows.