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"
The rector was startled. He had an instant vision of Clayton
Spencer, tall, composed, handsome, impeccably clothed. He saw him
in the setting that suited him best, the quiet elegance of his home.
Clayton unhappy! Nonsense. But he was uneasy, too. That very
gravity which he had noticed lately, that was certainly not the
gravity of an entirely happy man. Clayton had changed, somehow.
Was there trouble there? And if there were, why?
The rector, who reduced most wretchedness to terms of dollars and
cents, of impending bills and small deprivations found himself at
a loss.
"I am sure you are wrong," he objected, rather feebly.
Delight eyed him with the scorn of nineteen for fifty.
"I wonder what you would do," she observed, "if mother just lay
around all day, and had her hair done, and got new clothes, and
never thought a thought of her own, and just used you as a sort of
walking bank-account?"
"My dear, I really can not - "
"I'll tell you what you'd do," she persisted.


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