"I always say," she remarked to Anthony, "that Richard is an ancient
soul."

In the tense pause that followed, Anthony considered a pun--something
about Dick having been much walked upon.

"We all have souls of different ages," continued Mrs. Gilbert radiantly;
"at least that's what I say."

"Perhaps so," agreed Anthony with an air of quickening to a hopeful
idea. The voice bubbled on:

"Gloria has a very young soul--irresponsible, as much as anything else.
She has no sense of responsibility."

"She's sparkling, Aunt Catherine," said Richard pleasantly. "A sense of
responsibility would spoil her. She's too pretty."

"Well," confessed Mrs. Gilbert, "all I know is that she goes and goes
and goes--"

The number of goings to Gloria's discredit was lost in the rattle of the
door-knob as it turned to admit Mr. Gilbert.

He was a short man with a mustache resting like a small white cloud
beneath his undistinguished nose. He had reached the stage where his
value as a social creature was a black and imponderable negative. His
ideas were the popular delusions of twenty years before; his mind
steered a wabbly and anaemic course in the wake of the daily newspaper