The words "three years" struck Jack with meaning. That corresponded exactly with the period of "Mr. B.'s" activities. "Any one could begin a new life if they really wished," he said. She looked at him queerly. "You're not leading up to a proposal of marriage, are you?" "No," said Jack, smiling. "It sounded like it," she said, settling back. "I like you ever so much, but of course it wouldn't do." "I have wondered why you never married again," he said. "So many men----!" "Oh, they don't mean anything. It's just the fashion to pay me attention. They look on me more as an institution than a woman. The ones who do come to the point of asking me are always horrid--or poor." "But you have plenty." "The appearances of wealth are illusory." "I should think fifty thousand a year----" She laughed lightly. "Where did you get that idea? I haven't the half of it." There was a silence while Jack debated how to go on. "Clara, I would really like to be your friend," he said at last. "That's nice of you." "If you only felt disposed to tell me frankly of your situation and your difficulties, perhaps I could help you." Something in this alarmed her; she favored him with a sharp little glance. "Mercy!" she said, turning it off with a laugh. "I haven't any special difficulties that I know of." "Who are these mysterious hard-eyed young people that come and go in this house as if they owned it? I mean George Thatcher, Emily Coster, Grace Marsden, and the others. Miriam herself; who is she, and where did she come from? She's no cousin of yours." Frank terror leaped out of Mrs. Cleaver's eyes. She attempted to mask it with a semblance of anger. "They are my friends! Am I obliged to give you an account of them!" "Queer friends!" murmured Jack. "You scarcely speak to them unless there are outsiders here." "What do you mean by taking this tone towards me!" "I wish to be your friend. Don't force me to believe the worst of you. If your conscience is clear, why should you fear a few plain questions?" "I'll hear what they are first. I don't like your tone." "You receive a thousand dollars every week. Where does it come from?" A fresh terror shot out of her eyes, and again she sought to hide it under a towering anger. "What impudent nonsense is this?" Jack went on imperturbably: "It is brought to you by a messenger in cash every Friday morning, and every Friday afternoon you carry it to the bank." "You have been spying on me! And you talk about being my friend?" "I do wish to be your friend. It is true I have been spying on you, as you call it. I was forced to it by my duty to an older friend. Are you going to answer my question?" "Certainly not! What right have you to question me about my private affairs! A paid secretary! This is what I get for admitting you to my friendship!" "To lose your temper and to insult me puts you in the worst possible light, you know. That is how a guilty conscience always acts."