“Ah, the young people of to-day!” she sighed. “What _is_ the matter with them, with the age, Dr. Despard? They are so hard, so individualistic. I myself was one of a large family, and we lived in the house with my grandparents and aunts. My life was made up of little duties for older people--duties I never thought of questioning. They were a pleasure to me. But if I ask Celia to go on an errand for me--or even to attend to something for herself--I am met by the look of a martyr or a rebel. But that is not the worst. At times, Dr. Despard, her language to me is violent--is--actually profane. I cannot help looking on this as an abnormal manifestation. At last I saw her case was pathological. No nice girl swears at her mother, and”--Mrs. Royce smiled--“my daughter is a nice girl.” It seemed to him that Mrs. Royce must be a very nice mother indeed. Soft, serious, and eminently maternal, she appealed profoundly to all his bachelor ideals. “And your husband?” he asked. “How does he get on with his daughter?” “Admirably,” she returned warmly; “they hardly see each other.” He glanced quickly at her to see if her intention were humorous, but something mechanical in her smile had already warned him that her mind was bent on other of life’s aspects than the comic. Now she was quite serious, and he replied with equal gravity: “It is often the solution.” They decided, at length, that he was to spend a few days with them in the country. To bring the girl to his office would be useless. He would find her a gentle, well-behaved little creature, perhaps too much interested in her books. The exigencies of the children’s education kept the Royces in town during the week, but they spent Saturday and Sunday at the old Royce place on the Hudson. Here Despard promised to come at the first opportunity. She thanked him, and held out a strong, firm hand. No, he thought when she had gone, he could not understand a girl’s swearing at such a mother--at once so affectionate and so intelligent, for, with pardonable egotism, Despard reckoned her bringing the problem to him a proof of rare domestic intelligence. Most women would have made it the subject of anger or tears. He himself held no special brief for youth. The younger generation did not attract him. His own nephews and nieces never made him return disgusted to his loneliness, but rather raised his enjoyment of his solitude. Before he admitted his next patient he stood a moment contemplating the sacrifices made by a parent. “It’s stupendous, it’s too much,” he thought; and smiled to think that, if he had married, a child of his might now be conducting him to a doctor’s office, for of the two he would undoubtedly have been the first to swear.