"Oh, I wasn't making suggestions," William King said. "I guess we're not the people to bring up a child. I'd spoil him, I've no doubt." "I'm sure you would!" Martha said, greatly relieved. "It would be the worst possible thing for him. But Willy, there's that Mrs. Richie?" "You think his evil tendencies wouldn't hurt her?" the doctor said dryly. "I think she's a rich woman, so why shouldn't she do a thing like that? I'll go and see her if you want me to--though she never makes you feel welcome; and tell her about the boy?" "You needn't bother; Dr. Lavendar will see her himself." "I don't understand that woman," Mrs. King said. "She keeps herself to herself too much. It almost looks as if she didn't think we were good enough to associate with her!" William made no reply. "Willy, does she use perfumery?" "How in the world should I know!" "Well, there's a sort of fragrance about her. It isn't like cologne, it's like--well, orris-root." William made no comment. "It's a kind of sachet, I guess; I'd like to know what it is. Willy, Sam Wright's Sam went out walking with her yesterday. I met them on the River Road. I believe the boy is in love with her!" "He's got eyes," William agreed. "_Tck!_" said Martha, "the idea of calling her good-looking! And I don't think it speaks well for a woman of her age--she's forty if she's a day--to let a boy trail round after her like that. And to fix herself up with sachet-powders and things. And her Sarah told the Draytons' Jean that she had her breakfast in bed every morning! I'd like to know how my housekeeping would go on if _I_ had breakfast in bed, though dear knows I'm very tired and it would be pleasant enough. But there's one thing about me: I may not be perfect, but I don't do lazy things just because they are pleasant." The doctor made no defence of Mrs. Richie. Instead he asked for another cup of coffee and when told that it would not be good for him, got up, then paused patiently, his hand on the door-knob, to hear his Martha out. "William, what do you suppose is the last thing Sam Wright's Sam has done?" The doctor confessed his ignorance. "Well, his father sent him to Mercer on Monday to buy supplies for the bank. He gave him seventy-five dollars. Back comes my young gentleman with--what do you suppose? A lot of pictures of actors and actresses! And no supplies." "What! you don't mean he spent the money on the pictures?" "Every bit of it! His mother came in and told me about it last night. She said his father was frantic. She was dreadfully upset herself. As for Sam, he kept saying that the 'prints,' as he called them, were very valuable. Though I'm sure I can't see why; they were only of actor people, and they had all died sixty or seventy years ago." "Actors!" the doctor said. "Poor Samuel! he hates the theatre. I do believe he'd rather have pictures of the devil."