Watching him, the twitching of her lips grew into a smile. She began to like him. In his nature there was something grim and uncompromising which enabled him to keep his teeth shut on speech and the expression of his religious convictions. She recognized that this gift, or his wisdom, had thwarted her. She had meant to tease him, to taunt him with his Seaman's Club, where, on Saturday nights, the strains of the harmonium he had carried there droned a melancholy yet compelling welcome to the loafers about the docks, but she was robbed of opportunity. He never spoke of his pursuits, seldom of himself, and she was startled into a friendly pity for him. He had wanted a home and, at last, unwillingly, he had been admitted into this one, yet here, in the place of his desire, he sat silent and reserved, carefully keeping even a mental aloofness from the doings of his relatives. Was this gratitude, or a fear of ejection? And did he find any happiness among them? She frowned, for her heart was softening, and she foresaw that when she had time, when that poem was written, she would have to turn her powers to the understanding of him. This was capitulation, she confessed, but then, she comforted herself, analysis of men and women was important for her future. He looked up, caught her puzzled, eager stare, and smiled. Smiling, too, she nodded. Really, she thought, why has not someone fallen in love with him? When the meal was over and Edward Webb had crept quietly to his study, and Uncle George had departed to his harmonium, Theresa stood before the fire and looked down at her mother, gently rocking in the old chair. "Do you think he has ever been in love?" she said. "Who?" Nancy asked. "Uncle George, of course," said Theresa. "I don't know, dear. I never heard of anyone." "It's not lawful to marry one's uncle, is it?" "I suppose not." Nancy's brows were raised. "I'm coming to the conclusion that he's rather an attractive man--and very mysterious. If I ever marry, I shall marry a mystery." "I shouldn't advise it, dear." "I should tire of anyone else in a year--less! I must have excitement." "There's a time of life when one longs for peace." Theresa jerked her head upwards. "Not for me!" she cried, and clasped her hands behind her back. Like a young horse, not yet broken, she believed herself unconquerable. Nancy smiled. "Where's Grace? She has no class to-night." "No, I expect she has gone to see someone." A little dart of anxiety pierced her, for she was a shrewed guesser, her eye was quick, and Grace's symptoms during the last weeks had been disturbing and familiar ones. She sighed. "Are you tired, dear?" "No, thank you." "Then I wish you'd see what Father's doing. He looks so white to-night. Just give me those new books off the sideboard, first, dearie."