"So I think she thinks. There are some sorts of helplessness that are
contemptible. However, a small difference has taken place. That's why
he won't wait any longer. His mother has come out, she has something--a
little--and she's able to assist him. She'll live with them and bear
some of the expenses, and after her death the son will have what there
is."

"How old is she?" I cynically asked.

"I haven't the least idea. But it doesn't, on his part, sound very
heroic--or very inspiring for our friend here. He hasn't been to America
since he first went out."

"That's an odd way of adoring her," I observed.

"I made that objection mentally, but I didn't express it to her. She met
it indeed a little by telling me that he had had other chances to marry."

"That surprises me," I remarked. "But did she say," I asked, "that _she_
had had?"

"No, and that's one of the things I thought nice in her; for she must
have had. She didn't try to make out that he had spoiled her life. She
has three other sisters and there's very little money at home. She has
tried to make money; she has written little things and painted little
things--and dreadful little things they must have been; too bad to think
of. Her father has had a long illness and has lost his place--he was in
receipt of a salary in connexion with some waterworks--and one of her
sisters has lately become a widow, with children and without means. And
so as in fact she never has married any one else, whatever opportunities