interference in her affairs was disinterested and kind. "I did
what I could for her--risking what might or might not be said,"
Mr. Pomeroy might add, with a hero's modest smile and shrug. And
if nobody ever believed him, at least nobody ever challenged him.

Vivian Sartoris, girlishly perched on the great square leather
fender that framed the fireplace, was merely a modern, a very
modern, little girl, demurely dressed in the smartest of white
taffeta ruffles, with her small feet in white silk stockings and
shoes, a daring little black-and-white hat mashed down upon her
soft, loose hair, and, slung about her shoulders, a woolly coat of
clearest lemon yellow. Vivian gave the impression of a soft little
watchful cat, unfriendly, alert, selfish. Her manner was studiedly
rowdyish, her speech marred by slang; she loved only a few persons
in the world besides herself. One of these few persons, however,
was Clarence Breckenridge's daughter, Carol, affectionately known
to all these persons as "Billy," and it was in Miss Breckenridge's
defence that Vivian was speaking now. A general yet desultory
discussion of the three Breckenridges had been going on for some
moments. And some particular criticism of the man of the family
had pierced Miss Sartoris' habitual attitude of bored silence.

"That's all true about him," she said, idly spreading a sturdy
little hand to the blaze. "I have no use for Clarence
Breckenridge, and I think Mrs. Breckenridge is absolutely the most
cold-blooded woman I ever met! She always makes me feel as if she
were waiting to see me make a fool of myself, so that she could
smile that smooth superior smile at me. But Carol's different--
she's square, she is; she's just top-hole--if you know what I
mean--she's the finest ever," finished Miss Sartoris, with a