before speaking at all. It was a safe habit to acquire. _Aut prudens aut
nullus._

Geraldine's starched skirts rustled on the stairway. When she came into
the room the directors of the Half Moon Trust were slightly astonished.
During the youth of the twins, the wives of several gentlemen present
had called at intervals to inspect the growth of Anthony Seagrave's
grandchildren, particularly those worthy and acquisitive ladies who had
children themselves. The far-sighted reap rewards. Some day these baby
twins would be old enough to marry. It was prudent to remember such
details. A position as an old family friend might one day prove of
thrifty advantage in this miserably mercenary world where dog eats dog,
and dividends are sometimes passed. God knows and pities the sorrows of
the rich.

Geraldine, her slim hand in Colonel Mallett's, courtesied with old-time
quaintness, then her lifted eyes swept the rosy, rotund countenances
before her. To each she courtesied and spoke, offering the questioning
hand of amity.

The thing that seemed to surprise them was that she had grown since they
had seen her. Time flies when hunting safe investments. The manners she
retained, like her fashion of wearing her hair, and the cut and length
of her apparel were clearly too childish to suit the tall, slender,
prettily rounded figure--the mature oval of the face, the delicately
firm modelling of the features.

This was no child before them; here stood adorable adolescence, a hint
of the awakening in the velvet-brown eyes which were long and slightly
slanting at the corners; hints, too, in the vivid lips, in the finer