that with all his efforts he was but a bumpkin compared with certain other men—­Rodney Temple, for example—­who never took any pains at all.  Looking at her now, her pure, exquisite profile bent over her piece of work, while the sun struck coppery gleams from her masses of brown hair, he felt as he had often felt in rooms filled with fragile specimens of art—­flower-like cups of ancient glass, dainty groups in Meissen, mystic lovelinesses wrought in amber, ivory, or jade—­as if his big, gross personality ought to shrink into itself and he should walk on tiptoe.

“I understand from my father,” she said, when she found herself obliged to break the silence, “that you’ve offered to help him in his difficulties.  I couldn’t let the occasion pass without telling you how much I appreciate your generosity.”

She spoke without looking up; words and tone were gently courteous, but they affected him like an April zephyr, that ought to bring the balm of spring, and yet has the chill of ice in it.

“Haven’t you noticed,” he said, slowly, choosing his words with care, “that generosity consists largely in the point of view of the other party?  You may give away an old cloak, for the sake of getting rid of it; but the person who receives it thinks you kind.”

“I see that,” she admitted, going on with her work, “and yet there are people to whom I shouldn’t offer an old cloak, even if I had one to give away.”

He colored promptly.  “You mean that if they needed anything you’d offer them the best you had.”

“I wonder if you’d understand that I’m not speaking ungraciously if I said that—­I shouldn’t offer them anything at all?”

He put up his hand and stroked his long, fair mustache.  It was the sort of rebuke to which he was sensitive.  It seemed to relegate him to another land, another world, another species of being from those to which she belonged.  It was a second or two before he could decide what to say.  “No, Miss Guion,” he answered then; “I don’t understand that point of view.”

“I’m sorry.  I hoped you would.”

“Why?”

She lifted her clear gray eyes on him for the briefest possible look.  “Need I explain?”

The question gave him an advantage he was quick to seize.  “Not at all, Miss Guion.  You’ve a right to your own judgments.  I don’t ask to know them.”

“But I think you ought.  When you enter into what is distinctly our private family affair, I’ve a right to give my opinion.”

“You don’t think I question that?”

“I’m afraid I do.  I imagine you’re capable of carrying your point, regardless of what I feel.”

“But I’ve no point to carry.  I find Mr. Guion wanting to borrow a sum of money that I’m prepared to lend.  It’s a common situation in business.”

“Ah, but this is not business.  It’s charity.”

“Did Mr. Guion tell you so?”

“He did.  He told me all about it.  My father has no secrets from me.”