"Well," she answered him, "until two years ago Millicent lived in this
house--that must have had its effect on her."

"Yes," he agreed; "she shows it. These old places set their stamp on
people--it's very plain on you."

Mrs. Gladwyne saw that he understood, but she felt half guilty as she
proceeded:

"You admit that you could not give her anything of this kind in Canada?"

He laughed rather grimly.

"No; our homes were built yesterday, and we move on rapidly--they'll be
pulled down again to-morrow. I'll own that our ideas and manners are in
the same unfinished, transitory stage. We haven't been able to sit down
and learn how to be graceful."

She made a sign of comprehension, though her reluctance to proceed grew
stronger. He was very honest and there was pain in his face.

"Millicent," she said, "is essentially one of us, used to what we
consider needful, bred to our ways. The endless small amenities which
make life smooth here have always surrounded her. Can you imagine her,
for instance, living with the Marples?"

"No," he replied harshly; "I can't."

"Then do you think it would be wise to take her to Canada?"

"I have thought she would not mind giving up many things she values, if
one could win her affection."

"That is very true; but it doesn't get over the difficulty. It isn't so
very hard to nerve oneself to make a sacrifice, it's the facing of the
inevitable results when the reaction sets in that tells. She would
continually miss something she had been used to and she would long for
it."

He sat silent for nearly a minute, with his face set hard, and then he
looked up.

"If Millicent were your daughter, would you let her go?"

Again Mrs. Gladwyne hesitated. His confidence hurt her; she shrank from
delivering what she thought would be the final blow, but she strove to
assure herself that she was acting in Millicent's best interest.

"No," she answered, "not unless she was passionately attached to the man
who wished to take her out, and then I should do my utmost to dissuade
her."

He made no answer for a few moments. Then slowly he rose.

"Thank you," he said gravely. "I'm afraid you're right. It's generally
hard to do what one ought. Well,"--he took the hand she held out--"I'm
grateful to you in many ways and I'd like you to remember me now and
then."

She let him go, and crossing the room to a window, she watched him stride
down the drive with a swift, determined gait. He might be trie