ael or a Titian!" said Mr. Vertrees, finishing
the implication, not in words, but with a wave of his hand. "Go on,
Mary. None of the rest of them came in? You didn't meet Mr. Sheridan
or--" He paused and adjusted a lump of coal in the fire delicately with
the poker. "Or one of the sons?"

Mary's glance crossed his, at that, with a flash of utter comprehension.
He turned instantly away, but she had begun to laugh again.

"No," she said, "no one except the women, but mamma inquired about the
sons thoroughly!"

"Mary!" Mrs. Vertrees protested.

"Oh, most adroitly, too!" laughed the girl. "Only she couldn't help
unconsciously turning to look at me--when she did it!"

"Mary Vertrees!"

"Never mind, mamma! Mrs. Sheridan and Miss Sheridan neither of THEM
could help unconsciously turning to look at me--speculatively--at the
same time! They all three kept looking at me and talking about the
oldest son, Mr. James Sheridan, Junior. Mrs. Sheridan said his father is
very anxious 'to get Jim to marry and settle down,' and she assured me
that 'Jim is right cultivated.' Another of the sons, the youngest one,
caught me looking in the window this afternoon; but they didn't seem
to consider him quite one of themselves, somehow, though Mrs. Sheridan
mentioned that a couple of years or so ago he had been 'right sick,'
and had been to some cure or other. They seemed relieved to bring the
subject back to 'Jim' and his virtues--and to look at me! The other
brother is the middle one, Roscoe; he's the one that owns the new house
across the street, where that young black-sheep of the Lamhorns, Robert,
goes so often. I saw a short, dark young man standing on the porch with
Robert Lamhorn there the other day, so I suppose that was Roscoe. 'Jim'
still lurks in the mists, but I shall meet him to-night. Papa--" She
stepped nearer to him so that he had to face her, and his eyes were
troubled as he did. There may have been a trouble deep within her own,
but she kept their surface merry with laughter. "Papa, Bibbs is the
youngest one's name, and Bibbs--to the best of our information--is a
lunatic. Roscoe is married. Papa, does it have to be Jim?"

"Mary!" Mrs. Vertrees cried, sharply. "You're outrageous! That's a
perfectly horrible way of talking!"

"Well, I'm close to twenty-four," said Mary, turning to her. "I haven't
been able to like anybody yet that's asked me to marry him, and maybe I
never shall. Until a year or so ago I've had everything