“You can’t much,” the serene Harlan agreed. He spoke from his easy-chair in the bay window, whither he had returned from an unemotional excursion to the blue leather case when it was exhibited. “You can see, though, that Dan’s young person is perfect, as he said, in several ways.” “Think so?” “Yes; she’s perfectly _à la mode_; she’s perfectly pretty—and perfectly what we usually call shallow.” “Oh, I don’t know.” “Don’t you?” Harlan asked, with a slight amusement, and added reflectively: “Martha Shelby won’t like this much, I dare say.” “No,” Mrs. Oliphant said faintly. “Poor Martha!” “Oh, look here!” her husband remonstrated. “What’s the use of all this? You’re acting as if we were facing a calamity. Dan’s got a mighty good head on his shoulders; he wouldn’t fall in love with a mere little goose. Besides, didn’t I ask you: ‘What can you tell from a photograph?’” “Not everything, sir,” Harlan interposed. “But you can usually get an idea of the type of person it’s a photograph of.” “Yes, you can,” Mrs. Oliphant said. “That’s what frightens me. She doesn’t seem the type that would want to take care of him when he’s sick and be interested in his business and help him. She might even be the type that wouldn’t like living here, after New York, and would get to complaining and want to take him away. Of course it _is_ true we can’t tell from that photograph, though.” “Can’t you?” Harlan asked with a short laugh. “Then why are you so disturbed by it?” “That’s sense,” his father said approvingly. “If you can’t tell anything about her, what’s the sense of worrying?” “It doesn’t appear that you got my point, sir,” Harlan remarked. “You and mother are both disturbed because you _have_ drawn certain conclusions.” “From that picture?” “I think so, sir.” “You’re talking nonsense,” Mr. Oliphant returned testily. “Nobody can tell anything at all from a photograph. Not a thing!” “No,” Mrs. Oliphant agreed, wiping her eyes again. “I hope not. I mean I’m _sure_ not.” “That’s right,” said her husband heartily. “That’s the way to look at it.” “Yes; isn’t it!” said the sardonic Harlan, as he resumed his reading; and for a time the library was given over to a reflective silence;—the ceiling, fifteen feet from the floor, was too solid a structure for the pacing that had begun overhead to be heard below.