“Good heavens!” breathed Mrs. Willers in a transport of pious triumph, “just think of it! And now up in that cottage on Pine Street getting fifty cents a lesson, and with only four pupils.” “In two years,” said Shackleton, who was speaking more to himself than to her, “she’ll be twenty-seven years old--just in her prime.” “She’ll be twenty-six,” corrected Mrs. Willers; “she’s only twenty-four now.” He raised his brows with a little air of amused apology. “Twenty-four, is it?” he said. “Well, that’s all the better. Twenty-six is one year better than twenty-seven.” “It’ll be like the ‘Innocents Abroad’ to see her and her mother in Paris,” said Mrs. Willers. “They’re just two of the most unsophisticated females that ever strayed out of the golden age.” The man vouchsafed no answer to this remark for a moment; then he said: “The mother’s health is very delicate? She’s quite an invalid, you say?” “Quite. But she’s one of the sweetest, most uncomplaining women you ever laid eyes on. You’d understand the daughter better if you knew the mother. She’s so gentle and girlish. And then they’ve lived round in such a sort of quiet, secluded way. It’s funny to me because they had plenty of money when Mr. Moreau was alive. But they never seemed to go into society, or know many people; they just seemed enough for each other, especially when the father was with them. They simply adored him, and he must have been a fine man. They--” “Is Mrs. Moreau’s state of health too bad to allow her to travel?” said Shackleton, interrupting suddenly and rudely. Mrs. Willers colored slightly. She knew her chief well enough to realize that his tone indicated annoyance. Why did he so dislike to hear anything about the late Dan Moreau? “As to that I don’t know,” she said. “She’s so much of an invalid that she rarely goes out. But with good care she might be able to take a journey and benefit by it. A sea trip sometimes cures people.” “Miss Moreau couldn’t, and, I have no doubt, wouldn’t leave her. It’ll therefore be necessary for the mother to go to Paris with the girl, and if she is so complete and helpless an invalid she’ll certainly be of no assistance to her daughter--only a care.” “She’d undoubtedly be a care. But a person couldn’t separate those two. They’re wrapped up in each other. It’s a pity you don’t know Mrs. Moreau, Mr. Shackleton.” For the second time that afternoon Mrs. Willers was conscious that words she had intended to be gently ingratiating had given mysterious offense to her employer. Now he said, with more than an edge of sharpness to his words: