"Yes—and he might disapprove. Men of his kind who stand for almost anything in outsiders are finicky about their own relatives. They really don’t care what imprudence other people commit; they may even admire it—even do it themselves—but there’s a difference as soon as it involves one of the family. I’ve an idea he is like that." "Isn’t it stretching a thin tie of kinship too far to speak of Jim Edgerton and ourselves in a family sense? Are you and I not rather inclined to abuse that word cousin, Diana?" "He first used it to us," she said warmly; "it is his choice. He’s a very impulsive and generous boy; do you know it?" "Yes, I do.... Isn’t it a thousand pities?" "What about?" "His losing everything—being so wretchedly poor.... And our being poor, too." "Yes," said Diana simply. "And he’ll never, never recoup. He is full of talent, and nothing else. What a pity! He isn’t the successful sort. It’s a pity, isn’t it, Di?" "Yes." "Because he is already quite mad about you, Di—he’s a perfect boy about you... How can men of his age retain their niceness and charm and freshness, after what they usually pass through. With all his undesirable wisdom and his masculine worldly experiences, he’s practically as innocent as we are." Diana suddenly sat up cross-legged on the bed and gathered her ankles in her hands. [Illustration: "’I wonder just how innocent we really are,’ she said."] "I wonder just how innocent we really are," she said, "with all those things which we have been obliged to know about in our higher education? And—speaking of education—there was our last year in Keno. That year did some curious things to us. Do you realize our development, our worldly evolution since the beginning of last year—how familiar we became with that doubtful worldly wisdom which is supposed to be part of the make-up of a woman of the world? ... Do you realize that it was a year of laissez faire, of revelation, of laxity and acquiescence in relaxation, a year of paradox, of ceremony sans façon, of schooling oneself to overlook and accept, of an education in morals and their immoral variations? How aloof have we kept ourselves from what we have learned to tolerate?—and how much was due to fastidiousness, how much to expediency, how much to common sense, and how much to spiritual conviction?" "Does your conscience really trouble you?" asked Silvette anxiously. "No; only in regard to Jim Edgerton. I’d rather he knew how we regard life before he reclaims relationship in public; that’s all."