Why must we always cover up the facts with a lot of platitudes?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Palmerston lightly. "I suppose there ought to
be a skeleton of truth under all we say, but one doesn't need to rattle
his bones to prove that he has them."

The girl laughed. Palmerston caught a glimpse of something reassuring in
her laugh.

"It might not be cheerful," she admitted, "but it would be honest, and
we might learn to like it. Besides, the truth is not always
disagreeable."

"Wouldn't the monotony of candor appall us?" urged Palmerston. "Isn't it
possible that our deceptions are all the individuality we have?"

"Heaven forbid!" said his companion curtly.

They drove on without speaking. The young man was obstinately averse to
breaking the silence, which, nevertheless, annoyed him. He had a theory
that feminine chatter was disagreeable. Just why he should feel
aggrieved that this particular young woman did not talk to him he could
not say. No doubt he would have resented with high disdain the
suggestion that his vanity had been covertly feeding for years upon the
anxiety of young women to make talk for his diversion.

"Do you think my father has closed his agreement with this man of whom
you were speaking--this Mr. Dysart?" asked Miss Brownell, returning to
the subject as if they had never left it.

"I am very certain he has not; at least, he had not this morning,"
rejoined Palmerston.

"I wish it might be prevented," she said earnestly, with a note of
appeal.

"I have talked with Dysart, but my arguments fail to impress him;
perhaps you may be more successful."

Palmerston was aware of responding to her tone rather than to her
words. The girl shook her head.

"I can do nothing. People who have only common sense are at a terrible
disadvantage when it comes to argument. I know it is all nonsense; but a
great many people seem to prefer nonsense. I believe my father would die
if he were reduced to bare facts."

"There is something in that," laughed Palmerston. "A theory makes a very
comfortable mental garment, if it is roomy enough."

The young woman turned and glanced at him curiously, as if she could not
divine what he was laughing at.

"They are like children--such people. My father is like a child. He does
not live in the world; he cannot defend himself."

Palmerston's skepticism rushed into his face. The girl looked at him,
and the color mounted to her forehead.

"You do not believe in him!" she b