She was dark like her mother, but her features lacked the widow's pleasant curves. They were firm and square, and a pair of dark eyes looked out moodily from under heavy eyebrows. The short red lips were full and curved, while the mother's lips were dangerously thin and straight. As the architect looked at the girl, standing tall and erect in the light from the western window, he felt that she was destined to be of some importance. It was also plain enough that she and her mother were not sympathetic. When the widow spoke, the daughter seemed to listen with the terrible criticism of youth lurking in her eyes. A close observer would have seen, also, that the girl had in her a capacity for passion that the mother altogether lacked. The woman was mildly sensuous and physical in mood, but totally without the strong emotions of the girl that might sweep her to any act, mindless of fate. When the clash came between the two, as it was likely to come before long, the mother would be the one to retreat. "Have you had your ride, dear?" Mrs. Phillips asked in soothing tones, carefully prepared for the public. "No, mamma. Uncle Harry was here, you know." "I am sorry not to have you take your ride every day, no matter what happens," the mother continued, as if she had not heard the girl's excuse. "I had rather see uncle Harry. Besides, Frolic went lame yesterday." "You can always take my horse," Mrs. Phillips persisted, her eyebrows contracting as they had over the money question. A look of what some day might become contempt shadowed the girl's face. She bowed to the architect in her stiff way which made him understand that it was no recommendation to her favor to be her mother's friend, and walked across the room with a dignity beyond the older woman's power. "She is at the difficult age," the mother murmured. "She is growing beautiful!" Jackson exclaimed. "I hope so," Mrs. Phillips answered composedly. "When can you let me see the sketches?" "In two or three days." "Won't you dine with us next Wednesday, then?" She seemed to have arranged every detail of the transaction with accuracy and care. CHAPTER VII The Spellmans lived on the other side of the city from Mrs. Phillips, on Maple Street, very near the lake. Their little stone-front, Gothic-faced house was pretty nearly all the tangible property that Mr. Spellman had to leave to his widow and child when he died, sixteen years before. There had been also his small interest in Jackson's Bridge Works, an interest which at the time was largely speculative, but which had enabled Powers Jackson to pay the widow a liberal income without hurting her pride.