“I had a long letter from Forbes Westcott to-day,” she said, in a tone which tried to be casual.  “He’s staying on in London, getting material for that difficult Letchworth case he’s so anxious to win.  It’s a wonderfully interesting letter, though he doesn’t say much about the case.  He’s one of the cleverest letter writers I ever knew—­in the flesh.  It’s really an art with him.  If he hadn’t made a lawyer of himself he would have been a man of letters, his literary tastes are so fine.  It’s quite an education in the use of delightfully spirited English, a correspondence with him.  I’ve appreciated that more with each letter.”

She produced the letter.  “Just listen to this account of an interview he had with a distinguished Member of Parliament, the one who has just made that daring speech in the House that set everybody on fire.”  And she read aloud from several closely written pages, holding the sheets toward the still bright embers, and giving the words the benefit of her own clear and understanding interpretation.  Her mother listened with interest.

“That is, indeed, a fine description,” she agreed.  “There is no question that Forbes has a brilliant mind.  The position he already occupies testifies to that, and the older men all acknowledge that he is rising more rapidly than could be expected of any ordinary man.  He will be one of the great men of the legal profession, your father and uncle think, I know.”

“One of the great men,” repeated Roberta, her face still bent over her letter.  “I suppose there’s no doubt at all of that.  And, mother—­you may imagine that when he sets himself to persuade—­any one—­to—­any course, he knows how to put it as irresistibly as words can.”

“Yes, I should imagine that, dear,” said her mother, her eyes on the down-bent profile, whose outlines, against the background of the firelight, would have held a gaze less loving than her own.

“His age makes him interesting, you know,” pursued Roberta.  “He’s just enough older—­and maturer—­than any of the men I know, to make him seem immensely more worth while.  His very looks—­that thin, keen face of his—­it’s plain, yet attractive, and his eyes look as if they could see through stone walls.  It flatters you to have him seem to find the things you say worth listening to.  I can’t just explain his peculiar—­fascination—­I really think it is that, except that it’s his splendid mind that grips yours, somehow.  Oh, I sound like a, schoolgirl,” she burst out, “in spite of my twenty-four years.  I wonder if you see what I mean.”

“I think I do,” said her mother, smiling a little.  “You mean that your judgment approves him, but that your heart lags a little behind?”

“How did you know?” Roberta folded her arms upon her mother’s lap, and looked up eagerly into her face.  “I didn’t say anything about my heart.”

“But you did, dear.  The very fact that you can discuss him so coolly tells me that your heart isn’t seriously involved as yet.  Is it?”