Channing listened in sheer amaze. "Primitive? Why, it's patriarchal! Positively Biblical in its simplicity!" he thought. Jemima was as pink as her decorations. "Judging from the Apple Blossom's expression," murmured Thorpe to Mrs. Kildare, "you have committed a hopeless social error in conversing with your cook." "I know! It was too bad of me. She takes her little party very seriously," said the other, remorsefully. "Don't you dare laugh at her, Jim! It is her first, and she's done it all by herself!" "If she made this puff-paste herself, no man in the world will think of laughing at her," he said heartily. "But--their social instincts are awaking, Kate. They come by them very naturally. It is time for your girls to have their chance." She winced. "What shall I do about it? How can I manage? I have no friends now. There is nobody I can count on to help them." He leaned toward her, his lined face for the moment almost beautiful. "There is always me, Kate. Hasn't the time come to let me help you, for their sakes? As Mrs. Thorpe--" he paused, and continued quietly, with a rather set look about his jaw, "As Mrs. Thorpe I think I can promise you a few friends, at least. And a--protector--though I may not look like one," he finished, wistfully. She shook her head, not meeting his eyes. She always avoided, when she could, these offers of help, knowing that when he grew tired of making them she would miss him. But she had not the courage to send him away, to break with him entirely. She was not consciously selfish. If it had been suggested to her that she was interfering with her friend's career, she would have been shocked and grieved beyond measure. Thorpe's devotion was a thing so complete, so perfect in its unobtrusiveness, that it defeated its own purpose. She simply took it for granted. He made no protest now; even smiled at her reassuringly, knowing that it troubled her to hurt him. Only the eagerness that had for the moment beautified his face died away, and Jacqueline, happening to glance across at him, thought, "Poor Goddy! How old and out of it all he looks!" She drew him into the conversation. "I was just telling the author, Professor Jimsy, that he inherits his patrician nose from you," she said (somewhat to the author's embarrassment). "And he says one doesn't inherit from uncles. That's nonsense! If property, why not noses? And character?" she added wickedly. "Oh, I see lots of resemblances between you!" "Do you?" murmured the Professor, rather grimly. "For instance, you both go in for psychology--only you don't publish yours in large purple novels." "I do not," said the Professor.