“Mother,” Robert shook a sapient finger in her direction, “mother, there won’t be any disagreeable positions for that young lady.” Mrs. Nixon regarded the speaker attentively. “She strikes me as a person who has been biding her time,” declared Robert. “At present she has arrived; and although she doesn’t make any fuss about it, that little hand of hers, with no rings on it, is closing around the tail of this giddy old world, and if it doesn’t turn to suit her, I think you’ll find her giving it a twist in the other direction.” “I’m certainly at a loss to know what you mean, Robert. She has always displayed excellent taste in her position. She has been entirely quiet and docile.” “Quiet, yes,” replied Robert with a laugh, “but docile! That’s all you know about it. My dear parent, mark my words. Don’t you ever imagine that this is any _jeune fille_ case, needing protection. Miss Helen Maynard is composed of two thirds sand and the other third grit.” The speaker closed his eyes and nodded his head slowly in a manner to express conviction. “Well! I had no idea you were such a student of character.” “Not a bit of it,” returned her son prosaically. “Never see anything till it hits me in the nose.” “Then I’m very dull,” returned the other with some hauteur, “for no such thing has ever been obvious to me.” “She’s fetching, oh, yes,” allowed Robert, “and she’ll make other people fetch, too. It cheers me to think she’s making Brute toil up seven flights of log-stairs to look at the moon with her.” “She will be a success, just because she has herself so well in hand,” declared Mrs. Nixon, unwilling to view this subject lightly. “She is not a beauty, but well-gowned and with her self-possession she will pass for one.” “Oh, yes,” agreed Robert lightly. He had thrown himself into Mrs. Bruce’s vacated chair, and there was silence for a span while the two gazed at the fire; then the lady spoke again, tentatively. “However independent Miss Maynard may be, she will require a chaperon now.” “Yes, one well trained to follow at heel.” “Robert, I wish you wouldn’t exaggerate so.” “Dear me, mamma mia,” looking up in surprise at the impatient tone. “Why should it make _you_ peevish?” Mrs. Nixon’s reply was dignified. “Because the duty may devolve upon me.” “Heavens! Why?” “Well, your uncle Henry is very much attached to the girl. He has a natural interest in her welfare.” “Has he asked you to look after her?” “He has suggested that we extend the hospitality of our home to her.” “Oh, come now!” ejaculated Robert. “When I’m to have a sister, please select a nice pussy one with appealing eyes like—like Hebe the Heaver, for instance.” “There will be no sister about it,” returned Mrs. Nixon sharply. “Mamma, mamma!” Her son turned lazily accusing eyes upon her. “Have you ulterior motives? Are you laying any traps for your little Robbie?” Mrs. Nixon gave a faint laugh in spite of herself.