“You see, there is no one I can talk to but yourself.  Even mother wouldn’t understand, completely; and she couldn’t be honest about Myrtle.  The best of mothers, after all, are women; and, Howat, there is always a curious formality between women, a little stiffness.”

“Well,” he demanded, “what do you want me to say, or what did you think I might do?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, her eyes bright with unshed tears.  “I suppose I just wanted a little support, or even some encouragement.  I don’t propose to let Myrtle walk off with David and not turn my hand.  Of course I am not a beauty, but then I’m not a ninny, either.  And I have a prettier figure; that is, it will still be pretty in ten or fifteen years; Myrtle’s soft.”

“Good heavens,” he exclaimed, half serious, “what Indians you all are!”

“I’m quite shameless,” she admitted, “and this is really what I thought—­you can, perhaps, help me sometimes, I don’t know how, but he will be out here a lot, men talk together—­”

“And I can tell him that Myrtle is an utterly untrustworthy person who would make him ultimately miserable.  I’ll remind him that her beauty is no deeper than he sees it.  But that Caroline there, admirable girl, seething with affection in a figure warranted against time or accident—­” her expression brought his banter to an end.  He studied her seriously, revolved what she had said.  She was right about Myrtle, who was undoubtedly a vain and silly little fish.  His father’s immoderate admiration for her had puzzled him as well as the elder sister.  He remembered that never had he heard their mother express a direct opinion of Myrtle; but neither had Isabel Penny shown the slightest question of her husband’s high regard for their youngest child.  She was, he realized with a warming of his admiration, beautifully cultivated in the wisdom of the world.

Caroline was vastly preferable to Myrtle, he felt that instinctively; and he was inclined to give her whatever assistance he could.  But this would be negligible, and he said so.  “You will have to do the trick by yourself,” he advised her.  “I wouldn’t pretend to tell you how.  As you said, you’re not a ninny.  And Myrtle’s none too clever, although she will manage to seem so.  It’s wonderful how she’ll pick up a hint or two and make a show.  You see—­she will be talking iron to David as if she had been raised in a furnace.”

“Men are so senseless!” Caroline exclaimed viciously.  She rose.  “It’s been a help only to talk to you, Howat.  I knew you’d understand.  Supper will be along soon.  Make yourself into a charmer for Mrs. Winscombe.  I’m certain she thinks the men out here are frightful hobs.”  The light had dimmed rapidly in the room, and he moved over to the chest of drawers, where he lit the candles, settling over them their tall, carved glass cylinders.

III