Randolph was silent; so was Steve--the latter never talked; in place of words he used the poker--not in any fiendish way; heaven forbid! but in a mild, unobtrusive manner, intelligible only to himself and Randolph. In this system of fireworks stenography, so to speak, a series of slow, deliberate pokes under the fire implied contemplation; poking down from above stood for disagreement; while thrusts of the poker between the ribs of the grate expressed sympathy or agitation. "Steve," said Randolph--his chair was tilted against the brick side wall of the chimney, and he was leaning back, with his hands clasped behind his head--"I tell you she's a pretty nice girl; an awfully sensible girl; one of the kind that sets your brain to jogging. It's easy to talk to her, she's so suggestive, wide awake, and at the same time she's restful, too. She's none of your hoity-toity characters, one thing one day and another the next, so you never know where you stand with them. You can feel secure with her. I feel as if I had known her all my life; there's the most perfect understanding between us; we don't have to talk; I think she knows my thoughts, and I'm certain I know hers. Awfully nice girl; one of the nicest I ever knew." "Must be," said Steve gently. After this there was some talk of a desultory sort, some solicitous watching of the oysters that were singing softly preparatory to boiling, and then Randolph bethought him of a conversation he overheard on the train that day and repeated it to Loveland, who sat bending over toward the fire, his elbows resting on his knees and poker in hand ready for action. "I tell you, Steve, it sets one thinking to get at the woman's side of the matter," said Randolph. "I've been idiot enough to suppose they thought just as we do on most subjects." Loveland smiled and poked the fire gently from above. "You know we've always been taught that women were naturally dependent, and I supposed it was second nature for them to receive money from their husbands, and so they got enough they cared no more about it. Do you think many of them feel like that woman in the car?" Loveland poked the fire from beneath and then sighed helplessly. "Can't say, I'm sure," he replied in his gentle, hesitant way. "They don't seem to go according to tradition in anything, so far as I've noticed. They're a peculiar race." "Oh, I don't know about that," said Randolph in a practical tone. "It's pretty easy to understand, once your attention's called to it. I'd never given the subject any thought, but if one chooses to observe he can very soon find out what's what. Some men are idiots and won't learn, so they get in a mess. "It's natural for you to be mystified, Steve," continued Randolph after a short pause, "but you see I have a sister and I know all about women. You can judge of the rest by any one of them. They're pretty much alike." Loveland gave the top of the fire a few little jabs.