“Which is one reason that I feel so sure Mr. Billett will get on very well with Sargent's daughter--if his Puritan principles don't make him feel too much as if he were linking her for life to a lost soul,” went on Mrs. Severance. “_Wha-a-at!_” “My dear Oliver, whatever my failings may be, I have some penetration. Mr. Billett was garrulous at times, I fear--young men are so apt to be with older women. Oh _no_--he was beautifully sure that he was not betraying himself--the dear ostrich. And that letter--really that was clumsy of both of you, Oliver--when I could see the handwriting--all modern and well-bred girls seem to write the same curly kind of hand somehow--and then Sargent's address in embossed blue letters on the back. And I _couldn't_ have suspected him of carrying on an intrigue with Mrs. Piper!” and Oliver was forced to smile at her tinkle of laughter. Then she grew a little earnest. “I don't suppose it was--Mr. Billett--I wanted so--exactly,” she mused. “It was more--Mr. Billett's age--Mr. Billett's undeniable freshness--if you see. I'm not quite a Kipling vampire--no--a vampire that wants to crunch the bones--or do vampires crunch bones? I believe they only act like babies with bottles--nasty of them, isn't it?--But one gets to a definite age--and Sargent's a dear but he has all the defects of a husband--and things begin slipping away, slipping away--” She made a motion of sifting between her hands, letting fall light grains of a precious substance that the hands were no longer young enough to keep. “And life goes so queerly and keeps moving on like a tramp in front of a policeman till you've started being gray and taking off your corset every time you're alone because you like being comfortable better than having a waist-line--and you've never had anything to settle you,” her face twitched, “not children--nor even the security of marriage--nothing but work that only interests part of you--and this--” She spread her hands at the apartment. “Well--what a lot of nonsense I'm talking--and keeping Mr. Billett out in the car when he's sure he has pneumonia already--how unkind of me. You must think me a very immoral old woman, don't you, Oliver?” “I think you're very sporting,” said Oliver, truthfully. “Not very. If I really _wanted_ Mr. Billett, you see.” Her eyes sparkled. “I'm afraid you wouldn't think me sporting at all--in that case. But then I don't think you'd have been able to--save--anybody I really wanted as you did Mr. Billett.” She spoke slowly. “Even with that very capable looking right hand. But in case you're still worried--” “I'm not, really.” She paid no attention.