“Nothing wrong with him; I’d find him a bit dull,” declared Miss Braithwaite. “He’s intelligent, has a nice mind; can’t turn it into currency to pay his way. I like a talker, as you know. But he is truly fine, and that he is nobly good he has given proof. There won’t be lacking those who will say that he recognized his opportunity; that marrying Jeanette Lucas was wise, and that his sacrifice of an income will be made up to him without much loss of time.” “How contemptible!” cried Cis. “As though there were need of looking beyond Jeanette herself for a reason for wanting to marry her! If Mr. Randolph had that sort of worldly prudence he need not have come into the Church at all! Why are human beings so mean?” “Because they are human, my dear. People must belittle fine actions when they are small people; big deeds are most annoying to small minds; they take them as personal affronts,” returned Miss Braithwaite placidly. “It really does not matter about the chatter of parrakeets. If you are so partizan of Paul Randolph why did you seem to hesitate just now in approving the marriage?” “I always hoped Jeanette would marry Mr. Lancaster, you know,” said Cis promptly. “But neither of them ever showed symptoms, so I don’t suppose it’s Mr. Randolph’s fault.” “Not in the least!” Miss Braithwaite laughed. “I sometimes think it may be another girl’s fault, though. I suspect Anselm of other wishes.” “How exciting!” cried Cis. “Aren’t you going to tell me? He seems so splendid, so interested in affairs, it’s hard to imagine him thinking of marrying.” Miss Braithwaite laughed again, but she held up her hands in horror. “Now heaven forfend!” she cried. “Cis, are you transforming poor Anselm into the hero of the early Victorian novel? Solitary, superior, remote, a demi-god, with the human, half wishy-washy, artificial? Because it’s distinctly unfair of you, if you are! He is thoroughly a human being, but he has made his humanity what God meant a man to be. To my mind he’s forceful, strong and quick in feeling; a vital man. He’s precisely the man to think of marriage, and not to think of it coolly, but to bring to it a great love, such as would honor any woman and make her happy.” Cis stirred uneasily; she could not have said why she felt uncomfortable, ill-at-ease. “I don’t think anything of him that you would not want me to think, Miss Braithwaite,” she said. “I don’t know him as you do, of course, but I admire him almost as much. If only you could have seen him with those boys! And Tom said in the station everybody stared at him.” “Boys? Station?” echoed Miss Braithwaite. “Tell me.” And Cis told her the story, to which she listened without comment. The next day Cis spent happily picking up the dropped threads of her Beaconhite existence. She went to Mr. Lucas’ office and received a welcome beyond her expectation.