lightest hope--and later
without the slightest desire--for any relaxation of the rigour when she
became of age and mistress of herself. That's the difference: a boy
looks forward to the moment when he can flourish his heels and wag his
ears and bray; a girl has no such prospect. Gerald has brayed; Eileen
never will flourish her heels unless she becomes fashionable after
marriage--which isn't very likely--"

Nina hesitated, another idea intruding.

"By the way, Austin; the Orchil boy--the one in Harvard--proposed to
Eileen--the little idiot! She told me--thank goodness! she still does
tell me things. Also the younger and chubbier Draymore youth has offered
himself--after a killingly proper interview with me. I thought it might
amuse you to hear of it."

"It might amuse me more if Eileen would get busy and bring Philip into
camp," observed her husband. "And why the devil they don't make up their
minds to it is beyond me. That brother of yours is the limit sometimes.
I'm fond of him--you know it--but he certainly can be the limit
sometimes."

"Do you know," said Nina, "that I believe he is in love with her?"

"Then, why doesn't--"

"I don't know. I was sure--I am sure now--that the girl cares more for
him than for anybody. And yet--and yet I don't believe she is actually
in love with him. Several times I supposed she was--or near it, anyway.
. . . But they are a curious pair, Austin--so quaint about it; so slow
and old-fashioned. . . . And the child is the most innocent being--in
some ways. . . . Which is all right unless she becomes one of those
pokey, earnest, knowledge-absorbing young things with the very germ of
vitality dried up and withered in her before she awakens. . . . I don't
know--I really don't. For a girl _must_ have something of the human
about her to attract a man, and be attracted. . . . Not that she need
know anything about love--or even suspect it. But there must be some
response in her, some--some--"

"Deviltry?" suggested Austin.

His pretty wife laughed and dropped one knee over the other, leaning
back to watch him finish his good-night cigarette. After a moment her
face grew grave, and she bent forward.

"Speaking of Rosamund a moment ago reminds me of something else she
wrote--it's about Alixe. Have you heard anything?"

"Not a word," said Austin, with a frank scowl, "and don't want to."

"It's only this--that Alixe is ill. Nobody seems to know what the matter
is; nobody has seen her.