her, and her empty days were so devoid of amusement! "I can't read
novels _all_ the time," she complained. In this very bread-and-butter
sort of interest she had no thought of possible consequences to
Sam. A certain pleasant indolence of mind made it easy not to think of
consequences at all. But he had begun to love her--with that first
passion of youth so divinely tender and ridiculous! After a while he
talked less of his play and more of himself. He told her of his
difficulties at home, how he hated the bank, and how stupid the girls
were.

"Lydia is the nicest, but she has no more imagination than a turnip.
They are very uninteresting--my family," he said meditatively. "I
don't like any of them--except mother. Mother hasn't any sense, but
she's good," Sam ended earnestly.

"Oh, but you mustn't say things like that!"

"Why not? They're true," he said with a surprised look.

"Well, but we don't always tell the truth right out," she reminded
him.

"I do," said Sam, and then explained that he didn't include his
grandfather in his generalization. "Grandfather's bully; you ought to
hear him swear!"

"Oh, I don't want to!" she said horrified.

"I told him that I burned the prints up," Sam went on. "And he said,
'good riddance to bad rubbish.' That was just like grandfather! Of