Marian observed her closely, not with any disposition towards cold or conscious criticism, but in order that she might better understand the conditions of her own life.  She also had a wakening curiosity to know just what her mother was to her father and he to her.  The hope was forming that she could make them more to each other.  She had too much tact to believe that this could be done by general exhortations.  If anything was to be accomplished it must be by methods so fine and unobtrusive as to be scarcely recognized.

Her father’s inner life had been a revelation to her, and she was led to query:  “Why does not mamma understand it?  Can she understand it?” Therefore she listened attentively to the details of what had happened in her absence.  She waited in vain for any searching and intelligent questions concerning the absent husband.  Beyond that he was well, and that everything about the house was just as she had left it, Mrs. Vosburgh appeared to have no interest.  She was voluble over little household affairs, the novel that just then absorbed her, and especially the callers and their chagrin at finding the young girl absent.

“Only the millionnaire widower remained any length of time when learning that you were away,” said the lady, “and he spent most of the evening with me.  I assure you he is a very nice, entertaining old fellow.”

“How did he entertain you?  What did he talk about?”

“Let me remember.  Now I think of it, what didn’t he talk about?  He is one of the most agreeable gossips I ever met,—­knows everybody and everything.  He has at his finger-ends the history of all who were belles in my time, and” (complacently) “I find that few have done better than I, while some, with all their opportunities, chose very crooked sticks.”

“You are right, mamma.  It seems to me that neither of us half appreciates papa.  He works right on so quietly and steadily, and yet he is not a machine, but a man.”

“Oh, I appreciate him.  Nine out of ten that he might have married would have made him no end of trouble.  I don’t make him any.  Well, after talking about the people we used to know, Mr. Lanniere began a tirade against the times and the war, which he says have cost him a hundred thousand dollars; but he took care in a quiet way to let me know that he has a good many hundred thousands left.  I declare, Marian, you might do a great deal worse.”

“Do you not think I might do a great deal better?” the young girl asked, with a frown.

“I have no doubt you think so.  Girls will be romantic.  I was, myself; but as one goes on in life one finds that a million, more or less, is a very comfortable fact.  Mr. Lanniere has a fine house in town, but he’s a great traveller, and an habitue of the best hotels of this country and Europe.  You could see the world with him on its golden side.”