There was one young person in the village toward whom Albert found himself making exceptions in his attitude of serenely impersonal tolerance. That person was Helen Kendall, the girl who had come into his grandfather's office the first morning of his stay in South Harniss. He was forced to make these exceptions by the young lady herself. When he met her the second time--which was after church on his first Sunday--his manner was even more loftily reserved than usual. He had distinct recollections of their first conversation. His own part in it had not been brilliant, and in it he had made the absurd statement--absurd in the light of what came after--that he was certainly NOT employed by Z. Snow and Co. So he was cool and superior when his grandmother brought them together after the meeting was over. If Helen noticed the superiority, she was certainly not over-awed by it, for she was so simple and natural and pleasant that he was obliged to unbend and be natural too. In fact, at their third meeting he himself spoke of the interview in the lumber office and again expressed his thanks for warning him of his grandfather's detestation of cigarettes. “Gee!” he exclaimed, “I'm certainly glad that you put me on to the old boy's feelings. I think he'd have murdered me if he had come back and found me puffing a Pall Mall in there.” She smiled. “He does hate them, doesn't he?” she said. “Hate them! I should say he did. Hating cigarettes is about the only point where he and Issy get along without an argument. If a traveler for a hardware house comes into the office smoking a cig, Issy opens all the windows to let the smell out, and Grandfather opens the door to throw the salesman out. Well, not exactly to throw him out, of course, but he never buys a single cent's worth of a cigarette smoker.” Helen glanced at him. “You must be awfully glad you're not a traveling salesman,” she said demurely. Albert did not know exactly what to make of that remark. He, in his turn, looked at her, but she was grave and quite unconcerned. “Why?” he asked, after a moment. “Why--what?” “Why ought I to be glad I'm not a traveling salesman?” “Oh, I don't know. It just seemed to me that you ought, that's all.” “But why?” “Well, if you were you wouldn't make a great hit with your grandfather, would you?” “Eh? . . . Oh, you mean because I smoke. Say, YOU'RE not silly enough to be down on cigarettes the way grandfather is, are you?” “No-o, I'm not down on them, especially. I'm not very well acquainted with them.” “Neither is he. He never smoked one in his life. It's just country prejudice, that's all.” “Well, I live in the country, too, you know.” “Yes, but you're different.” “How do you know I am?”