Lucy was an artist, she knew the value of the pause, she knew the value of a shrug, the most delicate perceptible lifting of brows and shoulders, she knew the value of hands, that, out of periods of quiet, flickered now and then, spirit-white against the black shadows of her gown. An artist, she forgot the Bishop while she talked and did not look upon the change that grew upon his face. “It is very easy to be interesting. It only needs that you always guess what people are going to say next and never let them guess what you are going to say next. It needs a gift for words and a gift for silence. It was the process by which I brought up my children. My children have always known they did not know their mother, a course of training easier than spanking and more efficacious.” She stopped a moment. Her clasped hands tightened, “Yet in ultimate effect, at seventy-seven, a little lonely. We prefer our Christmases apart, my children and I.” Her words fell clear against a long silence following, “My husband, of course, spoiled the children. I was perfectly willing that he should; they were his children.” After a pause, the Bishop, bringing the words forth from far away murmured, musing, “Fathers do spoil children, perhaps.” Her tone turned tense, “I would have spoiled Nan!” then, resuming her gaze into the fire, upon her portrait, she continued her retrospective analysis, “And I have managed the town as I have managed my family. What Mrs. Hollister says, what Mrs. Hollister does not say, about ministers and missions, about dinners and diners, Westbury waits to know, and I have never let it be quite, quite sure! So Westbury watches, watches me--but oh, not as I watch Westbury! For it would be a little curious and disquieting--if I should cease to be popular! I don’t think that unpopularity would exactly suit--my physique! I am old and accustomed to sovereignty, even if it is, well, a bit monotonous! We were young and lively once, Westbury and I, but now we grow old and wish to be complacent and comfortable, so we don’t poke at each other’s consciences. And, indeed, why should we? For are we not pretty good, when one stops to look at us!” Patriotism deepened her voice, “Where is there another Westbury! We have kept the heritage of our fathers! We have not grown cheap in Westbury!” Then a lighter tone, “And how could we be very bad when we always have had you to idealize us! Ever since you were a boy! You came to us a stranger and we took you in, at once. We sometimes do take in the stranger at once, and sometimes never. Nowadays he must be presented to the portrait, and must pass that examination. Young Murray Newbold has never passed his, and he knows it. I believe I rather like to see him squirm, for it is not petty, it is a giant’s squirming, and I enjoy it because I fancy it has ceased to be perceptible to any eye but mine. It is interesting to observe the effect of the air of Westbury on some constitutions. Your young Newbold