unhumorous dryness. "When the world was very young, my dear," said
he, "I've no doubt I called you so. But not since."

She stretched out her hand and tapped his. She was very fond of him.
"You can't help being a man, my poor boy, and thinking manly
thoughts of me, a woman. But I'm not an idiot. Our young friend, as
you call him, is as poor as a church mouse. I know it. No, don't
say, 'How?' like Uncle Edward. He hasn't told me, but Nurse has--a
heart-breaking history of socks and things. There's the doctor's
diagnosis, too. I haven't forgotten. But the boy is too proud to cry
poverty among strangers. He keeps his end up like a man. To hear him
talk, one would think he not only hadn't a care in the world, but
that he commanded the earth. How can one help admiring the boy's
pluck and--that's where my reticence comes in--respecting the
boy's reserve?"

"H'm!" said Colonel Winwood.

"But, good gracious, Jim, dear, supposing you--or any of us--
men, I mean--had been in this boy's extraordinary position--
would you have acted differently? You would have died rather than
give your poverty away to absolute strangers to whom you were
indebted, in the way this boy is indebted to us. Good God, jim"--
she sent her dessert knife skimming across the table--"don't you
see? Any reference to poverty would be an invitation--a veiled
request for further help. To a gentleman like Paul Savelli, the
thing's unthinkable."

Colonel Winwood selected a fresh cigar, clipped off the end, and lit
it from a silver spirit lamp by his side. He blew out the first