dozen women,--and her mother began finding fault about something,
and said: 'Has not Lord Ingleby often told you of it?' Myra looked
up in her sweet, lazy way and answered: 'Dear mamma, I know it must
seem strange to you, but, do you know, my husband thinks everything
I do perfect.' 'Your husband is a fool!' snapped her mother. 'From
YOUR point of view, dear mamma,' said Myra, sweetly."

"Old curmudgeon!" remarked Garth. "Why are people of that sort
allowed to be called 'mothers'? We, who have had tender, perfect
mothers, would like to make it law that the other kind should always
be called 'she-parents,' or 'female progenitors,' or any other
descriptive title, but not profane the sacred name of mother!"

Jane was silent. She knew the beautiful story of Garth's boyhood
with his widowed mother. She knew his passionate adoration of her
sainted memory. She liked him best when she got a glimpse beneath
the surface, and did not wish to check his mood by reminding him
that she herself had never even lisped that name.

Garth rose from his chair and stretched his slim figure in the
slanting sun-rays, much as Myra had done. Jane looked at him. As is
often the case with plain people, great physical beauty appealed to
her strongly. She only allowed to that appeal its right proportion
in her estimation of her friends. Garth Dalmain by no means came
first among her particular chums. He was older than most of them,
and yet in some ways younger than any, and his remarkable
youthfulness of manner and exuberance of spirits sometimes made him
appear foolish to Jane, whose sense of humour was of a more sedate
kind. But of the absolute perfection of his outward appearance,
there was no question; and Jane looked at him now, much as his own