et him to _help_ you. Er--_ahem_! And I'll be back
in about fifteen minutes, or so."

For a time there was silence in the big, warm conservatory. Young Nisbet
had taken the dish from Dorothy's hands, and, after seating himself on
the low marble parapet surrounding the pool, devoted his energies to
feeding the gold-fish. He was thinking that it was all to be done over
again, and that it was harder than ever, if such a thing were possible,
to do. What was there about those few words which seemed to choke him?
For the moment, he took refuge in a commonplace question.

"Is it one of your duties to feed these persons?"

Dorothy laughed shortly, like a little chord of music.

"No--it's the Mater's peculiar privilege," she answered. "She adores the
stupid little beasts. Don't give them such large pieces, Mr. Nisbet. She
feeds them regularly herself,--or did, until Dad began to require so
much of her time. But lately, the house has been so upset, and she has
been doing such a lot of going out, and coming in"--

"Yes," put in young Nisbet dryly, "I've noticed the coming in part."

"So Natalie has been doing it for her," went on Dorothy, more rapidly.
"I suppose Natalie herself hasn't had the time, these last three days.
They _are_ hungry, aren't they? _Don't give them such large pieces, Mr.
Nisbet!_ Don't you see the poor things have only button-holes for
mouths?"

There was another long pause, before either spoke again.

"What defeats me about your mother," said young Nisbet slowly, "is the
way she manages to come in just at the wrong moment. At interruption,
she's the most star performer I've ever run up against. You don't mind
my saying that, do you? I'm not throwing any asparagus. I wouldn't be
disrespectful about her for the world. But really, for chopping into a
conversation, she's a dazzler!"

"She _is_ a little inopportune at times," admitted Dorothy.

"Inopportune? Yes,--she's all of that. When she marches in, I feel
exactly as if the boat had gybed, and the boom come over and knocked me
into thirty fathoms of water. Lord!"

"Why, how ridiculous!" said Dorothy. "There's nothing about the Mater to
be afraid of. She's the dearest, most innocent old thing in the world!
She just blunders along like that, and nobody is less aware of her
mistakes than she is. And, after all, why shouldn't she interrupt us, so
long as we're not saying anything in particular? And if we _were_
saying--anything in particular, we could