"Three girls--three sisters, who are orphans--in a kind of way, wards of my father's," explained Paul, showing a disposition to stammer for the first time. "Their name is King, and they have come to live in Melbourne, where they don't know anyone--not a single friend. I thought, perhaps, you would just call in and see them some day--it would be so awfully kind of you, if you would. A little notice from a woman like _you_ would be just everything to them." "Are they nice?--that is to say, are they the sort of people whom one would--a--care to be responsible for--you know what I mean? Are they _ladies?_" inquired Mrs. Aarons, who, by virtue of her own extraction, was bound to be select and exclusive in her choice of acquaintances. "Most certainly," replied Paul, with imprudent warmth. "There can be no manner of doubt about that. _Born_ ladies." "I don't ask what they were born," she said quickly, with a toss of the head. "What are they _now?_ Who are their connections? What do they live on?" Paul Brion gave a succinct and graphic sketch of the superficial history and circumstances of his father's "wards," omitting various details that instinct warned him might be accounted "low"--such, for instance, as the fact that the single maidservant of the house they lived in was nothing more to them than their medium of communication with the front door. He dwelt (like the straightforward blunderer that he was) on their personal refinement and their high culture and accomplishments, how they studied every day at the Public Library, taking their frugal lunch at the pastry-cook's--how they could talk French and German like "natives"--how they played the piano in a way that made all the blood in one's veins tingle--how, in short, they were in all things certain to do honour and credit to whoever would spread the wing of the matron and chaperon over them. It seemed to him a very interesting story, told by himself, and he was quite convinced that it must touch the tender woman's heart beating under that pretty dress beside him. "You are a mother yourself," he said (as indeed she was--the mother of four disappointing little Aaronses, who were _all_ long-nosed and narrow-eyed and dark, each successive infant more the image of its father than the last), "and so you can understand their position--you know how to feel for them." He thought this an irresistible plea, and was unprepared for the dead silence with which it was received. Glancing up quickly, he saw that she was by no means in the melting mood that he had looked for. "Of course, if you don't wish it--if it will be troubling you too much--" he began, with his old fierce abruptness, drawing himself together. "It is not that," said she, looking at her fan. "But now I know why you have stayed away for five weeks."