``I didn't suppose she had any intention of joining the
Brotherhood,'' said Clay. ``So she's been out every day, has
she? I like that,'' he commented, enthusiastically. ``She's a
fine, sweet girl.''

``Fine, sweet girl!'' growled MacWilliams. ``I should hope so.
She's the best. They don't make them any better than that, and
just think, if she's like that now, what will she be when she's
grown up, when she's learned a few things? Now her sister. You
can see just what her sister will be at thirty, and at fifty, and
at eighty. She's thoroughbred and she's the most beautiful woman
to look at I ever saw--but, my son--she is too careful. She
hasn't any illusions, and no sense of humor. And a woman with no
illusions and no sense of humor is going to be monotonous. You
can't teach her anything. You can't imagine yourself telling her
anything she doesn't know. The things we think important don't
reach her at all. They're not in her line, and in everything
else she knows more than we could ever guess at. But that Miss
Hope! It's a privilege to show her about. She wants to see
everything, and learn everything, and she goes poking her head
into openings and down shafts like a little fox terrier.
And she'll sit still and listen with her eyes wide open and tears
in them, too, and she doesn't know it--until you can't talk
yourself for just looking at her.''

Clay rose and moved on to the house in silence. He was glad that
MacWilliams had interrupted him when he did. He wondered whether
he understood Alice Langham after all. He had seen many fine
ladies before during his brief visits to London, and Berlin, and