"She always has been," snapped Mrs. Tweksbury, "an unconscious offering. Where is her gad-about sister?" "I forget--out West somewhere, I believe." "What is she doing?" "The Lord knows. I got a very disagreeable impression of her. I didn't do much questioning--Nancy was on the defensive. She adores her sister." "Bless the child! I have an unpleasant remembrance of the girl, too." Mrs. Tweksbury smiled grimly. "She was always a pert chit, and I believe she is like her disreputable father--you know about him, Ken?" "Yes--something. Miss Fletcher mentioned him--she says she wants to have a talk later on. But what do I care, Aunt Emily?" "I should rather like to know, myself." Mrs. Tweksbury sniffed scandal. "I never have been sure about him, but I know he was socially above reproach. If he personally went wrong it is deplorable, but, Ken, if he had his roots in good soil instead of mud, it isn't fatal." "Bosh! Aunt Emily." "Bosh! all you want to, boy. It's easy to bosh when you're on the safe side--but neither you nor I can afford to ignore the difference." "Nancy speaks for herself, Aunt Emily." "Yes, thank God, and redeems her father. Wait until you see the sister. She was a lovely, distracting imp--but with a queer twist. I shouldn't be surprised a bit if she needs a deal of explaining and excusing." But when Nancy's wonderful news reached Joan in the tiny Chicago home it made her very tender and wistful. "Think, Pat, of dear little Nan--going to be married. Married!" Patricia, who shared all Joan's letters, lighted a cigarette and puffed for a moment, looking into the glowing grate, then she quoted eloquently: "There was a little woman, So I've heard tell, Who went to market, Her eggs for to sell!" Joan stared. "My lamb, for this cause came Nancy and her kind into the world." "I don't understand, Pat." Joan's eyes were shining and misty. "Well, what on earth would you do with Nancy if you didn't marry her off? If she were homely she'd have to fill in chinks in other people's lives, but with her nice little basket of eggs, good looks, money, not too much wit, and a desire to please, she just naturally is put up for sale and off she goes!" "Pat, you are vulgar! Nancy is the finest, sweetest of girls. She would only marry for love." "Sure thing, my lamb. And she could make love out of--anything." Joan was thinking of Nancy's capacity for making truth. "Dear, little, sweet Nan," she whispered. "Just the right stuff out of which to make successful marriages. Who is the collector, Joan?" "Pat, you make me angry!" Joan really was hurt. "She doesn't tell me his name. She says----" here Joan referred to the letter; "'I am going to try and keep him until you come and see him. Joan, he is worth a trip from Chicago.'" "You are--going?" asked Patricia. "Pat--I am. Only for a visit, but suddenly I find myself crazy hungry for them all.