“Let’s have it, dear.”

Mrs. Tweksbury resorted to subterfuge.

“Well, having you off my hands,” she said, smiling as if she really meant what she said, “I am thinking of Doris Fletcher!”

“Do I know her?” Raymond tried to think.

“No.  She left New York just about the time you came to me.  She’s a wonderful woman, always was.  Has a passion for helping others live their lives—­she’s never had time to live her own.”

“Bad business.”  Raymond shook his head.

“Oh!  I don’t know, boy.  The older I grow the more inclined I am to believe that it is only by helping others live that one lives himself.”

This was trite and did not get anywhere, so Mrs. Tweksbury plunged a trifle.

“Doris Fletcher is going to bring her niece out next winter; wants me to help launch her.”

Raymond made no response to this.  He was not apt to be suspicious, but he waited.

“She has twin nieces.  Her younger sister died at their birth—­she made a sad marriage, poor girl, and the father of her children seems to have been blotted off the map.  The Fletchers were always silent and proud.  I greatly fear one of the twins takes after her obliterated parent, for Doris rarely mentions her—­it is always Nancy who is on exhibition; the other girl is doing that abominable thing—­securing her economic freedom, whatever that may mean.  Doris has tried to make me understand, but how girls as rich as those girls are going to be can want to go out and support themselves I do not understand—­it’s thieving.  Nothing less.  Taking bread from women who haven’t money.”

Mrs. Tweksbury sniffed scornfully and Raymond laughed.  He wasn’t interested.

Mrs. Tweksbury saw she was losing ground and made a third attempt.

“But this Nancy seems another matter.  I remember her, off and on.  I was often away when the Fletchers were home, and the girls were at school a good many years, but this Nancy is the sort of child that one doesn’t forget.  She’s lovely—­very fair—­and exquisite.  Her poor mother was always charming, and I imagine Doris Fletcher means to see that Nancy gets into no such snarl as poor Meredith’s—­Meredith was Doris’s sister.  Ken——!”

“Yes’m!” Raymond was looking at his watch.

“I wish you’d lend a hand next winter with this Nancy Thornton.”

Raymond gave a guffaw and came around to Mrs. Tweksbury.

“You’re about as opaque,” he said, “as crystal.  Of course I’ll lend a hand, Aunt Emily—­lend one, but don’t count upon anything more.  I—­I do not want to marry—­at least not for many years.  My father and mother did not leave a keen desire in me for marriage.”

“Oh!  Ken, can’t you forget?”

“I haven’t yet, Aunt Emily, but I’m not a conceited ass; your Miss Nancy would probably think me a dub; girls don’t fly at my head, but I’m safe as a watchdog and errand boy—­so I’ll fit in, Aunt Emily.”