“The older women resent it; they declare they will have nothing to do with her.” “Those estimable ladies whose husbands have paper in banks where father is a director will sing a different tune this evening.” “Men don’t know how we women feel about such matters; if mama had not been the woman she was it wouldn’t be so hard.” “Oh, yes, it would, Fanny! Besides you don’t know what sort of a woman father’s going to bring home to fill our Christmas stockings.” “Please don’t make it all more horrible than necessary,” she cried. “It’s that sort of thing, Wayne, the Christmas and the birthdays and the Sunday evenings at the piano, when she taught us to sing songs together--it’s all that that hurts me.” Her eyes were bright with tears. Wayne rose and walked the length of the room. “For God’s sake, Fanny, cut all that out.” “That’s what it means to me and it means even more to you. I think we made a mistake in not showing resentment when father told us. But we took it as calmly as though he had told us he had bought a new chair or a hat rack.” “You’re rating the lady as a piece of furniture, which is putting it pretty high. You mustn’t let Mrs. Wingfield and these other old ladies give you nervous prostration over this business. As I’ve already reminded you, father wasn’t born yesterday; you may be sure that he is making no mistake. Very likely she has a few millions in bank for spending money. For myself, I await her coming with the liveliest anticipations.” A shadow crossed his sister’s face as she listened. He had spoken harshly and she did not like the look in his eyes. She knew that he would care, but she did not know that he would care so much. He took a cigar from the tabarette at his elbow and lighted it. She studied him carefully as the match flamed. His hands were quite steady to-day, and there was an air of assurance about him that puzzled her deeply. He blew a smoke-ring and threw out his arms to shake down his cuffs. “Does anyone know a thing about the woman? Have you found out anything?” “That question, my dear sister, has been asked many times in the Greater City to-day, and the answer has been, so far as I know, an emphatic negative. But so much the better. If the gossips have nothing to work on they can’t do much. The fact of the woman being unknown is nothing; it’s all in her favour. Mrs. Craighill, with her faint background of New Hampshire--or is it Vermont?--her long sojourns abroad and all that, will strike town with a clean bill of health. I tell you father is wise in his generation. No old bones to pick. The woman will come into camp as fresh and new as her trousseau.” “I couldn’t say anything the other night when father told us, but now that the newspapers have done their worst it seems like the end of everything,” sighed Mrs. Blair.