“How goes it this morning, Hugh?” was the new-comer’s greeting.  He grasped the thin hand of the convalescent, smiling down at him.  Then he shook hands with Louis, saying, “It’s good of such a busy man to come in and cheer up this idle one,” and sat down as if he had come to stay.  But he had no proprietary air, and when a nurse looked in he only bowed gravely, as if he had not often seen her before.  If Louis had not known he would not have imagined that Richard’s hand in the affair of Benson’s illness had been other than that of a casual caller.

Louis Gray went away presently, thinking it over.  He was thinking of it again that evening as he sat upon the big rear porch of the Gray home, which looked out upon the lawn and tennis court where he and Roberta had just been having a bout lasting into the twilight.

“I heard something to-day that surprised me more than anything for a long time,” he began, and when his sister inquired what the strange news might be he repeated to her as he could remember it Hugh Benson’s outline of the extraordinary story about Richard Kendrick.  When she had heard it she observed: 

“I suppose there is much more of that sort of thing done by the very rich than we dream of.”

“By old men, yes—­and widows, and a few other classes of people.  But I don’t imagine it’s so common as to be noticeable among the young men of his class, do you?”

“Perhaps not.  Though you do hear of wonderful things the bachelors do at Christmas for the poor children.”

“At Christmas—­that’s another story.  Hearts get warmed up at Christmas, that, like old Scrooge’s, are cold and careless the rest of the year.  But for a fellow like Rich Kendrick to keep it up all the year round—­you’ll find that’s not so commonplace a tale.”

“I don’t know much about rich young men.”

“You’ve certainly kept this one at a distance,” Louis observed, eying his sister curiously in the twilight.  She was sitting in a boyish attitude, racket on lap, elbows on knees, chin on clasped hands, eyes on the shadowy garden.  “He’s been coming here evening after evening until now that his grandfather has gone home, and never once has anybody seen you so much as standing on the porch with him, to say nothing of strolling into the garden.  What’s the matter with you, Rob?  Any other girl would be following him round and getting into his path.  Not that you would need to, judging by the way I’ve seen him look at you once or twice.  Have you drawn an imaginary circle around yourself and pointed out to him the danger of crossing it?  I should take him for a fellow who would cross it then anyhow!”

“Imaginary circles are sometimes bigger barriers than stone walls,” she admitted, smiling to herself, “Besides, Lou, I thought somebody else was the person you wanted to see walking in the garden with me.”

“Forbes?  The person I expected to see, you mean.  Well, I don’t know about Forbes Westcott.  He’s a mighty clever chap, but I sometimes think his blood is a little thin—­like his body.  I can’t imagine his bothering about a sick child at a hospital, can you?  I’ve never seen him take a minute’s notice of Steve’s pair; and they’re little trumps, if ever children were.  Corporations are more in his line than children.”