from her masses of brown hair, he felt as he
had often felt in rooms filled with fragile specimens of
art--flower-like cups of ancient glass, dainty groups in Meissen, mystic
lovelinesses wrought in amber, ivory, or jade--as if his big, gross
personality ought to shrink into itself and he should walk on tiptoe.

"I understand from my father," she said, when she found herself obliged
to break the silence, "that you've offered to help him in his
difficulties. I couldn't let the occasion pass without telling you how
much I appreciate your generosity."

She spoke without looking up; words and tone were gently courteous, but
they affected him like an April zephyr, that ought to bring the balm of
spring, and yet has the chill of ice in it.

"Haven't you noticed," he said, slowly, choosing his words with care,
"that generosity consists largely in the point of view of the other
party? You may give away an old cloak, for the sake of getting rid of
it; but the person who receives it thinks you kind."

"I see that," she admitted, going on with her work, "and yet there are
people to whom I shouldn't offer an old cloak, even if I had one to give
away."

He colored promptly. "You mean that if they needed anything you'd offer
them the best you had."

"I wonder if you'd understand that I'm not speaking ungraciously if I
said that--I shouldn't offer them anything at all?"

He put up his hand and stroked his long, fair mustache. It was the sort
of rebuke to which he was sensitive. It seemed to relegate him to
another land, another world, another species of being from those to
which she belonged. It was a second or two before he could decide what
to say. "No, Miss Guion," he answered then; "I don't understand that
point of view."

"I'm sorry. I hoped you would."

"Why?"

She lifted her clear gray eyes on him for the briefest possible look.
"Need I explain?"

The question gave him an advantage he was quick to seize. "Not at all,
Miss Guion. You've a right to your own judgments. I don't ask to know
them."

"But I think you ought. When you enter into what is distinctly our
private family affair, I've a right to give my opinion."

"You don't think I question that?"

"I'm afraid I do. I imagine you're capable of carrying your point,
regardless of what I feel."

"But I've no point to carry. I find Mr. Guion wanting to borrow a sum of
money that I'm prepared to lend. It's a common situation in business."

"Ah, but this is n