“Of what?”

“Why, of something Owen—­Owen Sargent was saying a few days ago.  His mother’s quite daffy about establishing social centers and clubs for servant girls, you know, and she’s gotten into this new thing, a sort of college for servants.  Now I’ll ask Owen about it.  I’ll do that to-morrow.  That’s just what I’ll do!”

“Tell me about it,” her father said.  But Alexandra shook her head.

“I don’t honestly know anything about it, Dad.  But Owen had a lot of papers and a sort of prospectus.  His mother was wishing that she could try one of the graduates, but she keeps six or seven house servants, and it wouldn’t be practicable.  But I’ll see.  I never thought of us!  And I’ll bring Owen home to dinner to-morrow.  Is that all right, Mother?” she asked, as her mother came back into the room.

“Owen?  Certainly, dear; we’re always glad to see him,” Mrs. Salisbury said, a shade too casually, in a tone well calculated neither to alarm nor encourage, balanced to keep events uninterruptedly in their natural course.  But Alexandra was too deep in thought to notice a tone.

“You’ll see—­this is something entirely new, and just what we need!” she said gaily.

CHAPTER II

The constant visits of Owen Sargent, had he been but a few years older, and had Sandy been a few years older, would have filled Mrs. Salisbury’s heart with a wild maternal hope.  As it was, with Sandy barely nineteen, and Owen not quite twenty-two, she felt more tantalizing discomfort in their friendship than satisfaction.  Owen was a dear boy, queer, of course, but fine in every way, and Sandy was quite the prettiest girl in River Falls; but it was far too soon to begin to hope that they would do the entirely suitable and acceptable thing of falling in love with each other.  “That would be quite too perfect!” thought Mrs. Salisbury, watching them together.

No; Owen was too rich to be overlooked by all sorts of other girls, scrupulous and unscrupulous.  Every time he went with his mother for a week to Atlantic City or New York, Mrs. Salisbury writhed in apprehension of the thousand lures that must be spread on all sides about his lumbering feet.  He was just the sweet, big, simple sort to be trapped by some little empty-headed girl, some little marplot clever enough to pretend an interest in the prison problem, or the free-milk problem, or some other industrial problem in which Owen had seen fit to interest himself.  And her lovely, dignified Sandy, reflected the mother, a match for him in every way, beautiful, good, clever, just the woman to win him, by her own charm and the charms of children and home, away from the somewhat unnatural interests with which he had surrounded himself, must sit silent and watch him throw himself away.

Sandy, of course, had never had any idea of Owen in this light, of that her mother was quite sure.  Sandy treated him as she did her own brothers, frankly, despotically, delightfully.  And perhaps it was wiser, after all, not to give the child a hint, for it was evident that the shy, gentle Owen was absolutely at home and happy in the Salisbury home; nothing would be gained by making Sandy feel self-conscious and responsible now.