ink I have more than my
fair share of good health. Malcolm, as you are here, I want to show you
what I have chosen for Anna to-morrow," and she handed him a small
case. It contained one of those minute toy watches, set very prettily
with brilliants.

Malcolm lifted his eyelids in some surprise. "It is a perfect beauty,"
he observed; "but you must have paid a goodish bit for it."

"It was certainly rather extravagant of me," returned Mrs. Herrick
apologetically; "but you know how girls love pretty things. Anna did so
long for one of these little watches, and you know it is her
one-and-twentieth birthday. By the bye, Malcolm, what have you two
arranged for to-morrow?" But when her son briefly sketched out Anna's
modest programme, Mrs. Herrick's pleasant face clouded a little.

"What a singular choice the child has made!" she observed. "Malcolm, I
am not particularly anxious for her to be introduced to your Bohemian
friends. Oh, I don't mean to say anything against the Kestons," warned
by a certain stiffness of manner on Malcolm's part--"I have never even
seen them; but Anna and Mrs. Keston move in such different worlds."

"Yes, of course," he returned rather impatiently; "but a mere
introduction need not lead to intimacy. Verity is a good little
creature, and her Bohemianism will not hurt Anna for one afternoon."

Mrs. Herrick's firm lips were pressed together rather closely as
Malcolm spoke, and her manner became still graver.

"Will you forgive my speaking plainly, Malcolm?" she said quietly, "but
I do think it such a grievous mistake for you to call Mrs. Keston by
her Christian name. You know I have mentioned this before." Then
Malcolm reddened; but though he laughed, he was inwardly annoyed.

"I spoke without thinking," he returned, trying to control his
impatience, "but I suppose habit was too strong for me. There is really
no harm in it, mother. You know Keston is my most intimate friend--he
is one of the best fellows in the world--and it stands to reason that
his wife should be my good friend too."

"Yes, but there are limits, Malcolm."

"Of course there are limits," rather irritably; "but if I were to talk
for ever I should never make you understand, mother. In the first
place, you have never seen Verity--I mean Mrs. Keston. She is the
product of a modern age. From babyhood she has lived among artists. She
has imbibed their Bohemianism and learnt to talk their jargon. A studio
has been her nursery, playr