“And is there never anything indefinite in business?”

“Not if we can help it.”

“And what happens when you can’t help it?”

“Then we have to look for some one to whose discretion we can trust.”

“Exactly; and, if you’ll allow me to say it, Miss Pruyn is at an age and in a position where she needs a friend armed with discretion rather than authority.”

“Well, suppose we were agreed about everything—­the discretion and all—­what would you begin by doing?”

“I shouldn’t begin by doing anything.  I should try to win your daughter’s confidence; and if I couldn’t do that I should go away.”

“So that in the end it might happen that nothing would be accomplished.”

“It might happen so.  I shouldn’t expect it.  Good hearts are generally sensitive to good influences; and beneath her shell of manner Miss Pruyn strikes me as neither more nor less than a dear little girl.”

Again he was suspicious of a bid for favor; but again Diane’s air of almost haughty honesty negatived the thought.

“I’m glad you see that,” was the only comment he made.  “But,” he added, once more taking a step or two toward her, “when you had won her confidence, then you would do things that I suggested, wouldn’t you?”

“I shouldn’t have to.  She would probably do them herself, and a great deal better than you or I.”

“I don’t see how you can be sure of that.  If you don’t make her—­”

“When you’ve watered your plant and kept it in the sunshine you don’t have to make it bloom.  It will do that of itself.”

“But all these young men?—­and this young Wappinger—?”

“I should let them alone.”

“Not young Wappinger!”

“What harm is he doing?  I admit that the present situation has its foolish aspects from your point of view and mine; but I can think of things a great deal worse.  At least you know there is nothing clandestine going on; and young people who have the virtue of being open have the very first quality of all.  If you let them alone—­or leave them to sympathetic management—­you will probably find that they will outgrow the whole thing, as children outgrow an inordinate love of sweets.”

There was a brief pause, during which he stood looking down at her, a smile something like that of amusement hovering about his lips.

“So that, in your judgment,” he began again, “the whole thing resolves itself into a matter of discretion.  But now—­if you’ll pardon me for asking anything so blunt—­how am I to know that you would be discreet?”

For an instant she lifted her eyes to his, as if begging to be spared the reply.

“If it’s not a fair question—­” he began.

“It is a fair question,” she admitted; “only it’s one I find difficult to answer.  If it wasn’t important—­urgently important—­that I should obtain work, I should prefer not to answer it at all.  I must tell you that I haven’t always been discreet.  I’ve had to learn discretion—­by bitter lessons.”