“Heavens, no!” was the answer. “Nobody knows them; but everybody knows about them. My husband meets old Evans in business, of course, and thinks he’s a good sort. But the family—dear me!” “How much of it is there?” “Why, there’s the old lady, and two grown daughters and a son. The son’s a fine chap, they say—the old man took him in hand and put him at work in the shops. But I suppose he thought that daughters were too much of a proposition for him, and so he sent them to a fancy school—and, I tell you, they’re the most highly polished human specimens that ever you encountered!” It sounded entertaining. “But what does Oliver want with them?” asked Montague, wonderingly. “It isn’t that he wants them—they want him. They’re climbers, you know—perfectly frantic. They’ve come to town to get into Society.” “Then you mean that they pay Oliver?” asked Montague. “I don’t know that,” said the other, with a laugh. “You’ll have to ask Ollie. They’ve a number of the little brothers of the rich hanging round them, picking up whatever plunder’s in sight.” A look of pain crossed Montague’s face; and she saw it, and put out her hand with a sudden gesture. “Oh!” she exclaimed, “I’ve offended you!” “No,” said he, “it’s not that exactly—I wouldn’t be offended. But I’m worried about my brother.” “How do you mean?” “He gets a lot of money somehow, and I don’t know what it means.” The woman sat for a few moments in silence, watching him. “Didn’t he have any when he came here?” she asked. “Not very much,” said he. “Because,” she went on, “if he didn’t, he certainly managed it very cleverly—we all thought he had.” Again there was a pause; then suddenly Mrs. Winnie said: “Do you know, you feel differently about money from the way we do in New York. Do you realize it?” “I’m not sure,” said he. “How do you mean?” “You look at it in an old-fashioned sort of way—a person has to earn it—it’s a sign of something he’s done. It came to me just now, all in a flash—we don’t feel that way about money. We haven’t any of us earned ours; we’ve just got it. And it never occurs to us to expect other people to earn it—all we want to know is if they have it.” Montague did not tell his companion how very profound a remark he considered that; he was afraid it would not be delicate to agree with her. He had heard a story of a negro occupant of the “mourners’ bench,” who was voluble in confession of his sins, but took exception to the fervour with which the congregation said “Amen!”