The girls stepped out through the open French window, interlaced their
arms round one another and disappeared.

"They are good girls," said the mother, "but Kate has a will of her own.
Mr. Ingram, you will allow me to take you into my confidence. I am often
puzzled to know how to act towards Catherine. She is a good girl, but I
can't lead her. She is only seventeen, only just seventeen. Surely that
is too young an age to walk quite without leading strings."

Mr. Ingram was an old bachelor, but he was one of those mellow, gentle,
affectionate men who make the most delightful companions, whose sympathy
is always ready, and tact always to the fore. Mr. Ingram was full of
both sympathy and tact, but he had also a little gentle vanity to be
tickled, and when a handsome woman, still young, appealed to him with
pathos in her eyes and voice, he laid himself, metaphorically, at her
feet.

"My dear madam," he responded, "it is most gratifying to me to feel that
I can be of the least use to you. Command me at all times, I beg. As to
Miss Catherine, who can guide her better than her excellent mother? I
don't know much about you, Mrs. Bertram, but I feel--forgive me, I am a
man of intuition--I feel that you are one to look up to. Miss Catherine
is a fortunate girl. You are right. She is far too young to walk alone.
Seventeen, did you say--pooh--a mere child, a baby. An immature
creature, ignorant, innocent, fresh, but undeveloped; just the age, Mrs.
Bertram, when she needs the aid and counsel of a mother like you."

Mrs. Bertram's dark eyes glowed with pleasure.

"I am glad you agree with me," she said. "The fact is, Mr. Ingram, we