Here was yet another anxiety for Edward Webb! His brow was furrowed, and he looked down at his fingers as they twisted his watchchain. "Don't tell me anything she wouldn't like me to know, Theresa." "Oh!" She blushed burningly. "Oh, I haven't been telling tales, have I? I didn't mean to--I didn't! Oh, what shall I do? I'll have to tell her I told you." "Yes, I think you'd better." "She never told me not to. You know I wouldn't be a sneak. I hate them. And she won't be home for hours. What shall I do till she comes? Could you read to me?" "I should like to." "I don't think I'll let you, thank you. If I went and met Grace from dancing, I'd get it over sooner, wouldn't I?" "It's too soon yet." "I'd rather start." She left him with his fears--a small, grey, tortured man. His own boyhood and youth had been ascetic, with no companions except books. No pretty face but Nancy's had allured him, and to think of Grace courted by hobbledehoydom was, to his fastidious eyes, to see her tarnished. He hurried down the stairs to Nancy. She laughed at him. "My dear, it's natural. And she's beautiful." "Very beautiful. There--there are dangers, Nancy." "Don't, Ned. That's horrid. She's a child." "She must be warned. Yes, it is natural, but what is so dangerous as nature? She must be warned. Flowers--and perhaps kisses! I can't endure it, Nancy." "My dear, you can't change humanity even in your daughters. I can't bear to hear you talk like that. It worries me." "Street-corner meetings--secrecy--foolishness--it must be stopped." "You'll make her think it's serious. She'll fancy she's in love! You must laugh at her. She is not fifteen." "I think it's you who ought to speak to her." "I can't, dear. My heart----" "Oh, Nancy! Very well. I'll do this, too." He marched upstairs again, and she lay back in her chair, trying to still a thumping heart. He knew he had undertaken one of the hardest tasks in the world.