Yet, somehow, Elizabeth found herself not entirely believing that
Clare's passion was real. Because the real thing you hid with all
your might, at least until you were sure it was wanted. After that,
of course, you could be so proud of it that you might become utterly
shameless. She was afraid sometimes that she was the sort to be
utterly shameless. Yet, for all her halcyon hours, there were
little things that worried her. Wallie Sayre, for instance, always
having to be kept from saying things she didn't want to hear. And
Nina. She wasn't sure that Nina was entirely happy. And, of
course, there was Jim.

Jim was difficult. Sometimes he was a man, and then again he was
a boy, and one never knew just which he was going to be. He was
too old for discipline and too young to manage himself. He was
spending almost all his evenings away from home now, and her mother
always drew an inaudible sigh when he was spoken of.

Elizabeth had waited up for him one night, only a short time before,
and beckoning him into her room, had talked to him severely.

"You ought to be ashamed, Jim," she said. "You're simply worrying
mother sick."

"Well, why?" he demanded defiantly. "I'm old enough to take care
of myself."

"You ought to be taking care of her, too."

He had looked rather crestfallen at that, and before he went out