“Are you tired of hearing us praise Mr. Peyton’s things?” she asked, dropping into a low chair beside her hostess. “Unintelligent admiration must be a bore to people who know, and Mr. Darrow tells me you are almost as learned as your son.” Mrs. Peyton returned the smile, but evaded the question. “I should be sorry to think your admiration unintelligent,” she said. “I like to feel that my boy’s work is appreciated by people who understand it.” “Oh, I have the usual smattering,” said Miss Verney carelessly. “I _think_ I know why I admire his work; but then I am sure I see more in it when some one like Mr. Darrow tells me how remarkable it is.” “Does Mr. Darrow say that?” the mother exclaimed, losing sight of her object in the rush of maternal pleasure. “He has said nothing else: it seems to be the only subject which loosens his tongue. I believe he is more anxious to have your son win the competition than to win it himself.” “He is a very good friend,” Mrs. Peyton assented. She was struck by the way in which the girl led the topic back to the special application of it which interested her. She had none of the artifices of prudery. “He feels sure that Mr. Peyton _will_ win,” Miss Verney continued. “It was very interesting to hear his reasons. He is an extraordinarily interesting man. It must be a tremendous incentive to have such a friend.” Mrs. Peyton hesitated. “The friendship is delightful; but I don’t know that my son needs the incentive. He is almost too ambitious.” Miss Verney looked up brightly. “Can one be?” she said. “Ambition is so splendid! It must be so glorious to be a man and go crashing through obstacles, straight up to the thing one is after. I’m afraid I don’t care for people who are superior to success. I like marriage by capture!” She rose with her wandering laugh, and stood flushed and sparkling above Mrs. Peyton, who continued to gaze at her gravely. “What do you call success?” the latter asked. “It means so many different things.” “Oh, yes, I know--the inward approval, and all that. Well, I’m afraid I like the other kind: the drums and wreaths and acclamations. If I were Mr. Peyton, for instance, I’d much rather win the competition than--than be as disinterested as Mr. Darrow.” Mrs. Peyton smiled. “I hope you won’t tell him so,” she said half seriously. “He is over-stimulated already; and he is so easily influenced by any one who--whose opinion he values.” She stopped abruptly, hearing herself, with a strange inward shock, re-echo the words which another man’s mother had once spoken to her. Miss Verney did not seem to take the allusion to herself, for she continued to fix on Mrs. Peyton a gaze of impartial sympathy. “But we can’t help being interested!” she declared. “It’s very kind of you; but I wish you would all help him to feel that his competition is after all of very little account compared with other things--his health and his peace of mind, for instance. He is looking horribly used up.”