He mentioned her at lunch. “Ah!” said Hal; “a-a-ah!” as if he had found something especially delectable on his plate. “That’s Vincenza. And I’ll bet she’s the prettiest girl in California.” Everyone at the table promptly agreed. Austin felt something like surprise over this singleness of opinion. Even Miss Scott and Dorothy came out with no protesting “buts.” And Mrs. Thorburn--where was the heated belittlement that might be expected of an adoring and excusably ambitious mother? Did she not realise that here was an eligible and very likeable young man, and, on the next ranch, an astonishing lovely girl? But the talk was of something else now, and Vincenza was forgotten. That evening, as he was sitting beside Mrs. Thorburn in the music-room, listening to Dorothy’s facile rendering of a Grieg number, the elder woman turned to him suddenly and rested a hand on his arm. “I think you’ve been happier than usual these two days,” she said. “Don’t you keep too close to your work and your home, Mr. Knowles?” “Work, yes,” answered Austin. “But I can scarcely say that I have a home. It--it is empty.” “You choose to have it so.” She was frankly reproving. “And yet you’re comparatively young, have means in abundance, and are the kind of man that sensible young women like.” Austin was silent a moment. Then he said, “I’ve turned forty, and I’ve never thought of filling my wife’s place. Perhaps it’s not gallant to say it, but I’m afraid the place couldn’t be filled.” “You’re wrong,” began Mrs. Thorburn, decisively. “There are many young women who could make you happy, cheer you, look after you--oh, every man needs looking after. And then, a son or a daughter would give you new interests in life.” “That’s true. Somehow, I’ve hardly even thought of it before, and never spoken of it to anyone. But you are--are sympathy itself.” “I lost my husband, and I know how it is with you. I didn’t marry again--I had my dear children.” Austin nodded. Across the room, still seated before the piano, and coaxing something wonderfully pathetic from the long keyboard was Dorothy, a dainty picture in her gown of flowing white. Mrs. Thorburn saw the direction of his look. “Dorothy is never interested in very young men,” she said. “I like to see her evident pleasure in _your_ company. I hope she’ll help to make your stay a very pleasant one. You know, after all, there’s no virtue in continued mourning, in nursing one’s grief.” Then, quickly, seeing Austin breathe deep, “Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t mean we should forget soon, or forget at all. Only, we’re put on this earth for happiness--happiness that doesn’t conflict with the happiness of others.” “Yes,” said Austin; “yes, I’m sure that’s so.” When she got up to move over to the Lamberts, chatting together in a corner, he stayed where he was. For a second time he was thinking along new lines. This time, however, his thoughts were decidedly definite.