Mrs. Berkley and her older daughter dropped into the intimate talk of a mother and daughter who are also close friends, sharing their experiences of matronhood. At first Anne listened, wistful, feeling a little pushed aside. Joan had been married less than two years. Anne could remember when she had been to her pretty sister an enviable combination of her discarded doll, her little sister, and the forerunner of the baby, though this Joan herself, still less Anne, had not understood. This had been almost three years ago, before Antony Paul had come and decided Joan against a convent, while she was still discussing her vocation in terms which had imprinted themselves upon Anne’s memory. Anne had not been her sister’s chief interest since she was four, so it was not that which she missed as she sat in the window seat; it was her mother’s divided interest that the little girl grudged. Anne’s dog, Cricket, an apprehensive, black-and-tan, bow-legged beagle, came to sit close to his little mistress, snuggling his head backward to beg for her hand. Anne pulled his soft ears and lost herself in ill-assorted thoughts. At last she aroused; Joan was saying: “Mother, you don’t know men! Of course, there is Father; I must confess you know him perfectly. It takes perfect knowledge to manage a man as you manage him--and he never suspects it! Why, he even prefers to go your way after a step or two in the other direction! But you do that by being you, so sweet and gentle, and--and--well, always right, I suppose! But men are not like father; he is so reasonable! Now Antony is the dearest of dears, but I can’t say he is always reasonable. Sometimes I simply cannot make him see things as I do. Then I give in; it’s my duty. But I’m afraid there’s another side to it. I ought to make him see. Especially now that I have Barbara to train. Antony is so sweet I could get him to do anything if I cried, but that’s a mean trick! A woman to play on a man’s chivalry! I’ve got to study, strengthen my mind, you know! Men are much, much more childish than we are, mother, yet they are fearful to argue with; they’re so horribly logical. And of all things you can’t trust to bring you out in an argument where you expected to land, logic is the worst!” Mrs. Berkley laughed her little amused laugh. “It even leads you astray in the construction of a sentence apparently,” she said. “I never knew a young matron who did not think that her study of her husband had revealed depths no other woman had ever fathomed. But I assure you, Joan, men are far more alike than women are. I have no doubt that by and by Antony will be led by you, just as you think your father is led by me. But rest assured, my dear, I don’t lead your father by logic!” Anne unwound herself and stretched her long, thin legs with a sigh.