Geraldine’s starched skirts rustled on the stairway.  When she came into the room the directors of the Half Moon Trust were slightly astonished.  During the youth of the twins, the wives of several gentlemen present had called at intervals to inspect the growth of Anthony Seagrave’s grandchildren, particularly those worthy and acquisitive ladies who had children themselves.  The far-sighted reap rewards.  Some day these baby twins would be old enough to marry.  It was prudent to remember such details.  A position as an old family friend might one day prove of thrifty advantage in this miserably mercenary world where dog eats dog, and dividends are sometimes passed.  God knows and pities the sorrows of the rich.

Geraldine, her slim hand in Colonel Mallett’s, courtesied with old-time quaintness, then her lifted eyes swept the rosy, rotund countenances before her.  To each she courtesied and spoke, offering the questioning hand of amity.

The thing that seemed to surprise them was that she had grown since they had seen her.  Time flies when hunting safe investments.  The manners she retained, like her fashion of wearing her hair, and the cut and length of her apparel were clearly too childish to suit the tall, slender, prettily rounded figure—­the mature oval of the face, the delicately firm modelling of the features.

This was no child before them; here stood adorable adolescence, a hint of the awakening in the velvet-brown eyes which were long and slightly slanting at the corners; hints, too, in the vivid lips, in the finer outline of the profile, in faint bluish shadows under the eyes, edging the curved cheeks’ bloom.

They had not seen her in two years or more, and she had grown up.  They had merely stepped down-town for a hasty two years’ glance at the market, and, behind their backs, the child had turned into a woman.

Hitherto they had addressed her as “Geraldine” and “child,” when a rare interview had been considered necessary.  Now, two years later, unconsciously, it was “Miss Seagrave,” and considerable embarrassment when the subject of intimate attire could no longer be avoided.

But Geraldine, unconscious of such things, broached the question with all the directness characteristic of her.

“I am sorry I was rude in my last letter,” she said gravely, turning to Mr. Tappan.  “Will you please forgive me?...  I am glad you came.  I do not think you understand that I am no longer a little girl, and that things necessary for a woman are necessary for me.  I want a quarterly allowance.  I need what a young woman needs.  Will you give these things to me, Mr. Tappan?”

Mr. Tappan’s dry lips cracked apart; he swallowed grimly several times, then his long bony fingers sought the meagre ends of his black string tie: 

“In the cultiwation of the indiwidool,” he began harshly, and checked himself, when Geraldine flushed to her ear tips and stamped her foot.  Self-control had gone at last.