"What's the matter with them?" Lydia asked, a trifle belligerently. She was sitting on the couch, chin cupped in her hand, watching her caller so intently that she was forgetting to be bashful. "Oh, you know they're so exactly like my classes in Shakespeare--raw-minded, no background, and plenty of them are of New England descent! I don't understand it. It's New England without its ancient soul, your Middle West." "I don't know what you mean by background," said Lydia. "But, Miss Dudley, you have it! Something, your reading or your environment has given you a mental referendum, as it were. You get more out of your Shakespeare than most of your mates because you understand so many of his references. You must have been a wide reader or your father and mother taught you well." "I--you've got the wrong impression about me," Lydia protested. "I've read always and mostly good things, thanks to Mr. Levine, but so have many other people in Lake City." Professor Willis looked at Lydia thoughtfully. "Levine? I thought he was a cheap scamp." Lydia flushed. "He's my best friend and a finely read man. He's kept me supplied with books." "Finely read, on the one hand," exclaimed Willis, "and on the other robbing Indians. How do you account for it?" Lydia did not stir. She continued with her crystal gaze on this wise man from the East, struggling to get his viewpoint. There flashed into her mind the thought that perhaps, when she knew him better, he could help her on the Indian question. "I can't account for it," she said. "I wish I could. Except for a French Canadian great-grandfather, Mr. Levine's a New Englander too." "New Englander! Pshaw! Outside of Lake Shore Avenue and the college there are no New Englanders here. They are hollow mockeries, unless," he stared at Lydia through his gold-rimmed glass, "unless you are a reversion to type, yourself." Lizzie spoke from the dining-room. "The chocolate's all ready, Lydia." "Oh, I forgot," exclaimed Lydia, flying out of the room and returning with a tray of chocolate and cake. "The cold walk must have made you hungry." Willis drew up to the table, and over his cup of chocolate remarked, "Ah--pardon me if I comment on the wonderful pieces of mahogany you have." Lydia set down her cup. "Why, I hate it!" she cried. "Hate it! It's priceless! Family pieces? I thought so! What delicious cake! How kind of your mother! I'd like to meet her, if I may." "I made the cake, Professor Willis. My--my mother is not living."