“He didn’t intend to have anything weighing on his conscience to keep him back when he is ready to go to the village for Ruth Lattimer.”

The mother smiled indulgently. There was nothing troubling in the thought of Ruth. She was a dear girl whom they all knew and loved. It was going to be nice to have Ruth with them. But then the shadow crept into her eyes again as she hurried back to the kitchen to do her mixing.

The two flew around at their work in a pleasant silence until Daryl had the dishes marshaled into the kitchen and was making short work of them. The fat was beginning to sizzle in the kettle, the dough was lying in a soft, puffy mass on the molding board, and a bright cutter was forming it into rings ready for frying.

Daryl hung up her dish towel, carried the pile of plates and cups to the pantry, and came over to test a bit of the dough to see if the fat was hot enough for the frying.

The mother looked up and smiled, with that little pool of worry back in the depths of her brown eyes. She thought the smile covered the worry, but it hovered out in her voice, too, as she spoke.

“What time is Mr. Warner coming?” There was something formal in her voice, and the girl felt it and looked up.

“Why won’t you call him Harold, Mother? He wants you to. You don’t need to hold him at arm’s length that way.”

The mother flushed.

“Well, I can’t seem to get used to it. I’ve seen him so little,” she apologized quickly. “You know in my day people didn’t call each other by their first names until they were well acquainted. But what time is he coming? Will it be before lunch? I don’t think you told me.”

“Oh, no,” said the girl, “he has to stay in the office till noon, and then it’s quite a drive.”

“Driving, is he? I didn’t know he had a car.”

“No, he hasn’t, but the company is lending him one. At least he had one for his work, and he said they wouldn’t care if he used it on off days.”

There was a silence for a moment while the mother considered this.

“I wouldn’t think it would be wise to do that without asking,” she said, speaking her thoughts aloud, and then wishing she hadn’t. “Suppose something should happen to it while he had it out for pleasure.”

“Why, he’ll probably ask, of course,” said Daryl a bit loftily. Then after a brief tense silence: “You don’t like him, do you, Mother?” Her voice was brittle, reproachful, as if the edge of her joy had suddenly broken off.

“Why! I never said that, Daryl!” said the mother quickly, shocked at being suspected in her innermost soul. “Why child! What have I done that should make you think that? I don’t really know him well enough to be sure whether I like him or not. I’m sure I never suggested such a thing as that I didn’t like him.”

“No, but you don’t!” said Daryl, with tears in her voice. “I felt it the minute you first looked at him. I’ve felt it both times he was here. And I can’t understand it! Everybody likes him! Simply everybody! And he’s so good-looking!” Her voice was almost a sob.

“Yes, he’s good-looking,” admitted Mrs. Devereaux, “he’s very good-looking. Perhaps that’s the trouble. He’s almost too good-looking to be true!” She tried to turn it off with a laugh, for after all she mustn’t say anything she would have to live down, but her voice faltered, and the depths of trouble shone out clearly from her eyes.

“Now, Mother!” said Daryl in a vexed tone, her own eyes suddenly filling and making them look like great blue lakes. “You would find something to worry about in that. The very idea of you not liking Harold because he is too good-looking. How perfectly silly!”

“I know,” said the mother, turning her troubled gaze on her child again, “it wasn’t that, of course. It was just that I love you so, dear child, and I want to be sure your friends are—all right!”

“But why shouldn’t he be all right? What is there about him, Mother, that made you think he wasn’t?”

“Nothing!” said her mother, feeling the look of trouble and indignation in her girl’s eyes, “nothing whatever! I just felt as if he wasn’t—quite—our kind!”

“What do you mean, our kind?” flashed the girl, on the defensive at once.

“Well—I don’t know—” said Mrs. Devereaux. “I rather got the idea, I guess, from some things he said when he was talking with Father, that he was out in social life a lot, and that his business threw him among a rather fast lot of men. Daryl, he doesn’t drink, does he?”

The girl’s face flushed suddenly red, and a flash almost of fear went shivering through the blue of her eyes.

“Why no, of course not!” she said haughtily.