"Quiet?" cried Benjamin Wright, rapping the table with his wine-glass.
"At your age? Nonsense!" He paused, cleared his throat, and then
sonorously:

"'Can you endure the livery of a nun, For aye to be in shady cloister
mew'd, To live a barren sister all your life, Chanting faint hymns to
the cold, fruitless moon?' Give me some more sherry. Of course you
must come. No use being shy--a pretty creatur' like you! And you said
you liked the play," he added with childlike reproach.

Helena, glad to change the subject, made haste to reassure him. "I do,
I do!" she said, and for a few minutes she kept the old face beaming
with her praise of Sam and his work. Unlike his grandson, Mr. Wright
was not critical of her criticism. Nothing she could say seemed to him
excessive. He contradicted every statement, but he believed it
implicitly. Then with a sigh of satisfaction, he returned to his
invitation. Helena shook her head decidedly.

"No; thank you very much. Mr. Pryor couldn't possibly come. He is only
here over Sunday, and--" She looked towards the dining-room for
protection, but the door had been gently closed.

"Hey?" Benjamin Wright said blankly. "Well, I won't insist; I won't
insist. We'll wait till he goes. Come Monday night."

"Oh," she said, her voice fluttering, "I am sorry but I really can't."

"Why can't you?" he insisted. "Come, tell the truth! The advantage of
telling the truth, young lady, is that neither God nor the devil can