“She told me a great deal about herself. She has been through Vassar and has traveled a great deal. This is the first summer since her graduation which she has not spent abroad. She and I talked of Rome and Florence. I--I told her of the month I spent in Italy when you were a baby, Roscoe.” “You did not tell her anything more, Mother? Anything she should not know?” “Boy!” reproachfully. “Pardon me, Mother. Of course you didn't. Did she tell you why she called on us--on you, I mean?” “Yes, in a way. I imagine--though she did not say so--that you are responsible for that. She and Nellie Dean seem to be well acquainted, almost friendly, which is odd, for I can scarcely think of two girls more different. But she likes Nellie, that is evident, and Nellie and George have told her about you and me.” “I see. And so she was curious concerning the interesting invalid. Probably anything even mildly interesting is a godsend to her, down here. Did she mention the Shore Lane rumpus?” “Yes. Although I mentioned it first. It was plain that she could not understand your position in the matter, Roscoe, and I explained it as well as I could. I told her that you felt the Lane was a necessity to the townspeople, and that, under the circumstances, you could not sell. I told her how deeply you sympathized with her mother--” “Did you tell her that?” “Why, yes. It is true, isn't it?” “Humph! Mildly so, maybe. What more did she say?” “She said she thought she understood better now. I told her about you, Boy, and what a good son you had been to me. How you had sacrificed your future and your career for my sake. Of course I could not go into particulars, at all, but we talked a great deal about you, Roscoe.” “That must have been deliriously interesting--to her.” “I think it was. She told me of your helping her home through the storm, and of something else you had not told me, Boy: of your bringing her and Mr. Carver off the flat in the boat that day. Why did you keep that a secret?” “It was not worth telling.” “She thought it was. She laughed about it; said you handled the affair in a most businesslike and unsentimental way; she never felt more like a bundle of dry-goods in her life, but that that appeared to be your manner of handling people. It was a somewhat startling manner, but very effective, she said. I don't know what she meant by that.” I knew, but I did not explain. “You don't mean to say, Mother, that you glorified me to her for an hour?” I demanded. “No, indeed. We talked of ever so many things. Of books, and pictures, and music. I'm afraid I was rather wearisome. It seemed so good to have some one--except you, of course, dear--to discuss such subjects with. Most of my callers are not interested in them.” I was silent.