Mrs. Richards inspected the sock with critical disapproval.

"Oh, well," she encouraged, "you'll learn ... practice makes perfect.
I've just finished a half-dozen pairs. I suppose I'm laying myself out
for a roast doing tatting in public _these_ war days! But it's restful
and I'm not one to pretend. As long as my conscience is clear I can
afford to be perfectly independent.... You don't make this trip every
night, do you?"

"Oh my, no! I'm going over to Mr. Flint's to take some dictation. He's
home sick."

"I saw Mrs. Flint and the children coming _off_ the boat just as I got
on." Mrs. Richards's voice took on a tone of casual directness.

"You know Mrs. Flint?"

"My dear girl, a trained nurse knows everybody--and everything about
them, too. You never get a real line on people until you live with
them. I've never nursed any of the Flint family, but I wouldn't have to
to get their reputation--or perhaps I should say, old Flint's."

"_Old_ Flint's?" echoed Claire.

"Well, of course he isn't so awfully old, but men like him always give
that impression. They're so awfully wise--about _some_ things. I _was_
so relieved when Gertie didn't get that dreadful Miss Whitehead's
place. Being in the general office is bad enough, but in his _private_
office...." Mrs. Richards lifted and dropped her tatting-filled hands