“They’ll be having a glorious time at Miss Cartan’s supper,” mused Mrs. Dennison.  “How she shines, doesn’t she, George?  And when you think of her beginnings there on that Wisconsin farm, isn’t it astonishing?”

“Those weren’t her beginnings, I fancy,” George said, venturing to taste of discussion concerning her as a brandy-lover may smell a glass he swears he will not drink.  “Her beginnings were very long ago.  She’s a Celt, and she has the witchery of the Celts.  How I’d love to hear her recite some of the new Irish poems!”

“She’d do it beautifully, George.  She does everything beautifully.  If I’d had a daughter like that, boy, what a different thing my life would be!  Or if you were to give me—­”

George clicked his ice sharply in his glass.  “See,” he said, “there’s Hackett coming in—­Hackett the actor.  Handsome devil, isn’t he?”

“Don’t use that tone, George,” said his aunt reprovingly.  “Handsome devil, indeed!  He’s a good-looking man.  Can’t you say that in a proper way?  I don’t want you to be sporty in your talk, George.  I always tried when you were a little boy to keep you from talking foolishly.”

“Oh, there’s no danger of my being foolish,” he said.  “I’m as staid and dull as ever you could wish me to be!”

For the first time in her life she found him bitter, but she had the sense at last to keep silent.  His eyes were full of pain, and as he looked about the crowded room with its suggestions of indulgent living, she saw something in his face leap to meet it—­something that seemed to repudiate the ideals she had passed on to him.  Involuntarily, Anne Dennison reached out her firm warm hand and laid it on the quivering one of her boy.

“A new thought has just come to you!” she said softly.  “Before you were through with your boast, lad, your temptation came.  I saw it.  Are you lonely, George?  Are you wanting something that Aunt Anne can give you?  Won’t you speak out to me?”

He drew his hand away from hers.

“No one in the world can give me what I want,” he said painfully.  “Forgive me, auntie; and let’s talk of other things.”

He had pushed her back into that lonely place where the old often must stand, and she shivered a little as if a cold wind blew over her.  He saw it and bent toward her contritely.

“You must help me,” he said.  “I am very unhappy.  I suppose almost everybody has been unhappy like this sometime.  Just bear with me, Aunt Anne, dear, and help me to forget for an hour or two.”

Anne Dennison regarded him understandingly.

“Here comes our lobster,” she said, “and while we eat it, I’ll tell you the story of the first time I ever ate at a restaurant.”

He nodded gratefully.  After all, while she lived, he could not be utterly bereft.

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