"No," said Phoebe slowly, "he is six years older than I am and that makes
him thirty-two. I have earned my living for ten years and a man five
years younger who sits at a desk next to mine at the office is taking
care of his mother and educating two younger brothers on a salary that is
less than mine--but _David_ is a dear! Did you see the little coats Polly
sent the babies?" she asked quickly to close the subject and to cover a
note of pain she had discovered in her own voice.

"They were lovely," answered Mrs. Buchanan. "Now let me show you how to
roll and whip your ruffle, Caroline dear," she added as she bent over
Caroline's completed hem. In a moment they were both immersed in a
scientific discussion of under-and-over stitch.

Phoebe clasped her knees in her arms and gazed into the fire. Her own
involuntary summing up of David Kildare had struck into her inner
consciousness like a blow. And Phoebe could not have explained to even
herself what it was in her that demanded the hewer of wood and drawer of
water in a man--in David. Decidedly Phoebe's demands were for elementals
and she questioned Kildare's right to his leisurely life based on the
Jeffersonian ideals of his forefathers.

And while they sewed and chatted the hour away, over in the library the
major and David were in interested conclave.

"Now, I leave it to you, Major, if he isn't just the limit," said David
on his return from his mission for the purpose of drawing Andrew from his
lair. "I couldn't budge him. He is writing away like all possessed with a
two-apple-and-a-cracker lunch on the table beside him. He seems to enjoy
a death-starve."