"She has twin nieces. Her younger sister died at their birth--she made a sad marriage, poor girl, and the father of her children seems to have been blotted off the map. The Fletchers were always silent and proud. I greatly fear one of the twins takes after her obliterated parent, for Doris rarely mentions her--it is always Nancy who is on exhibition; the other girl is doing that abominable thing--securing her economic freedom, whatever that may mean. Doris has tried to make me understand, but how girls as rich as those girls are going to be can want to go out and support themselves I do not understand--it's thieving. Nothing less. Taking bread from women who haven't money." Mrs. Tweksbury sniffed scornfully and Raymond laughed. He wasn't interested. Mrs. Tweksbury saw she was losing ground and made a third attempt. "But this Nancy seems another matter. I remember her, off and on. I was often away when the Fletchers were home, and the girls were at school a good many years, but this Nancy is the sort of child that one doesn't forget. She's lovely--very fair--and exquisite. Her poor mother was always charming, and I imagine Doris Fletcher means to see that Nancy gets into no such snarl as poor Meredith's--Meredith was Doris's sister. Ken----!" "Yes'm!" Raymond was looking at his watch. "I wish you'd lend a hand next winter with this Nancy Thornton." Raymond gave a guffaw and came around to Mrs. Tweksbury. "You're about as opaque," he said, "as crystal. Of course I'll lend a hand, Aunt Emily--_lend_ one, but don't count upon anything more. I--I do not want to marry--at least not for many years. My father and mother did not leave a keen desire in me for marriage." "Oh! Ken, can't you forget?" "I haven't yet, Aunt Emily, but I'm not a conceited ass; your Miss Nancy would probably think me a dub; girls don't fly at my head, but I'm safe as a watchdog and errand boy--so I'll fit in, Aunt Emily." He bent and kissed her. A week later the old house was draped and covered with ghostly linen and every homelike touch eliminated according to the sacred rites of the old regime; and man, that most domestic of all animals, was left to the contemplation of a smothered ideal--the ideal of home. Mrs. Tweksbury, with two servants, started by motor for Maine. "I may not be progressive in some ways," she proudly declared, "but a motor car keeps one from much that is best avoided--crowds, noise, and confusion. And I always insist that I am progressive where progress is worth while." But, alone in the still house, Raymond felt as if a linen cover also enshrouded him--he lost his appetite and took to lying at night with his hands clasped under his head--thinking! Thinking, he called it--but he was only drifting. He was abdicating thought. He got so that he could see himself as if detached from himself----