“Yes, thank you,” he answered, taking the hand she now offered him, and then taking Miss Andrews’s hand, while the girl’s eyes glowed with pleasure. “I shall be very glad.” “Oh, shall you?” she said, with her transparent sincerity. “And you won’t forget Thursdays! But any day at five we have tea.” “Thank you,” Verrian said. “I might forget the Thursdays, but I couldn’t forget all the days of the week.” Miss Andrews laughed and blushed at once. “Then we shall expect you every day.” “Well, every day but Thursday,” he promised. When the mother and daughter had gone Mrs. Verrian said, “She is a great admirer of yours, Philip. She’s read your story, and I suspect she wants an opportunity to talk with you about it.” “You mean Mrs. Andrews?” “Yes. I suppose the daughter hasn’t waited for an opportunity. The mother had read that publisher’s paragraph about your invalid, and wanted to know if you had ever heard from her again. Women are personal in their literary interests.” Philip asked, in dismay, “You didn’t give it away did you, mother?” “Certainly not, my dear. You have brought me up too carefully.” “Of course. I didn’t imagine you had.” Then, as they could not pretend to look at the pictures any longer, they went away, too. Their issue into the open air seemed fraught with novel emotion for Mrs. Verrian. “Well, now,” she said, “I have seen the woman I would be willing my son should marry.” “Child, you mean,” Philip said, not pretending that he did not know she meant Miss Andrews. “That girl,” his mother returned, “is innocence itself. Oh, Philip, dear, do marry her!” “Well, I don’t know. If her mother is behaving as sagely with her as you are with me the chances are that she won’t let me. Besides, I don’t know that I want to marry quite so much innocence.” “She is conscience incarnate,” his mother uttered, perfervidly. “You could put your very soul in her keeping.” “Then you would be out of a job, mother.” “Oh, I am not worthy of the job, my dear. I have always felt that. I am too complex, and sometimes I can’t see the right alone, as she could.” Philip was silent a moment while he lost the personal point of view. “I suspect we don’t see the right when we see it alone. We ought to see the wrong, too.” “Ah, Philip, don’t let your fancy go after that girl!” “Miss Andrews? I thought--” “Don’t you be complex, my dear. You know I mean Miss Shirley. What has become of her, I wonder. I heard Miss Andrews asking you.” “I wasn’t able to tell her. Do you want me to try telling you?” “I would rather you never could.” Philip laughed sardonically. “Now, I shall forget Thursdays and all the other days, too. You are a very unwise parent, mother.”