Maurice was at home that Saturday night for which Edith had thrown the careless invitation to Johnny; and Mrs. Newbolt also dropped in to dinner.  It was not a pleasant dinner.  Eleanor sat in one of her empty silences; saw Maurice frown at an overdone leg of lamb; heard her aunt’s stream of comments on her housekeeping; listened to Edith’s teasing chatter to Johnny;—­“What can Maurice see in her!” She thought.  Before dinner was over, she excused herself; she had a headache, she said.  “You won’t mind, Auntie, will you?”

Mrs. Newbolt said, heartily, “Not a bit!  My dear mother used to—­”

Eleanor, picking up little Bingo, went with lagging step out of the room.

“Children,” said Mrs. Newbolt, “why don’t you make taffy this evening?”

“That’s sense,” said Edith; “let’s!  It’s Mary’s night out.  Sorry poor old Eleanor isn’t up to it.”

Maurice frowned; “Look here, Edith, that isn’t—­respectful.”

Edith looked so blankly astonished that Mrs. Newbolt defended her:  “But Eleanor does look old!  And she’ll lose her figger if she isn’t careful!  My dear grandmother—­used to say, ’Girls, I’d rather have you lose your vir—­’”

“Don’t raise Cain in the kitchen, you two,” Maurice said, hastily; “Eleanor hates noise.”

Edith, subdued by his rebuke, said she wouldn’t raise Cain; and, indeed, she and Johnny were preternaturally quiet until things had been cleared away and the taffy could be started.  When it was on the stove, there was at least ten minutes of whispering while they watched the black molasses shimmer into the first yellow rings.  Then Johnny, in a low voice, talked for a good while of something he called “Philosophy”—­which seemed to consist in a profound disbelief in everything.  “Take religion,” said Johnny.  “I’d like to discuss it with you; I think you have a very good mind—­for a woman.  Religion is an illustration of what I mean.  It’s a delusion.  A complete delusion.  I have ceased to believe in anything.”

“Oh, Johnny, how awful!” said Edith, stirring the seething sweetness; “Johnny, be a lamb, and get me a tumbler of cold water, will you, to try this stuff?”

Johnny brought the water ("Oh, how young she is!” he thought), and Edith poured a trickle of taffy into it.

“Is it done?” Edith said, and held out the brittle string of candy; he bit at it, and said he guessed so.  Then they poured the foamy stuff into a pan, and put it in the refrigerator.  “We’ll wait till it gets stiff,” said Edith.

“I think,” said Johnny, in a low voice, “your hair is handsomer than most women’s.  I’m particular about a woman’s hair.”

Edith, sitting on the edge of the table, displaying very pretty ankles, put an appraising hand over the brown braids that were wound around her head in a sort of fillet.  “Are you?” she said, and began to yawn—­but stopped short, her mouth still open, for Johnny Bennett was looking at her!  “Let’s go into the library,” she said, hurriedly.