“Oh, nothing, of course,” she said, hurriedly.  “Nothing definite, that is.  Mary said decidely, long ago, that he’s not at all insane, as we thought at first.  It’s only—­well, of course it is odd, their attitude about him.  I suppose it’s some nervous trouble that makes him—­perhaps a little queer at times, so that he can’t apply himself to anything—­or perhaps does odd things.  But, after all, of course, we only have an impression about it.  We don’t know—­that is, positively.  I—­” She paused, then went on:  “I didn’t know just how to ask—­that is—­I didn’t mention it to Mary.  I didn’t—­I—­” The poor lady floundered pitifully, concluding with a mumble.  “So soon after—­after the—­the shock.”

“I don’t think I’ve caught more than a glimpse of him,” said Mr. Vertrees.  “I wouldn’t know him if I saw him, but your impression of him is—­” He broke off suddenly, springing to his feet in agitation.  “I can’t imagine her—­oh, no!” he gasped.  And he began to pace the floor.  “A half-witted epileptic!”

“No, no!” she cried.  “He may be all right.  We—­”

“Oh, it’s horrible!  I can’t—­” He threw himself back into his chair again, sweeping his hands across his face, then letting them fall limply at his sides.

Mrs. Vertrees was tremulous.  “You mustn’t give way so,” she said, inspired for once almost to direct discourse.  “Whatever Mary might think of doing, it wouldn’t be on her own account; it would be on ours.  But if we should—­should consider it, that wouldn’t be on our own account.  It isn’t because we think of ourselves.”

“Oh God, no!” he groaned.  “Not for us!  We can go to the poorhouse, but Mary can’t be a stenographer!”

Sighing, Mrs. Vertrees resumed her obliqueness.  “Of course,” she murmured, “it all seems very premature, speculating about such things, but I had a queer sort of feeling that she seemed quite interested in this—­” She had almost said “in this one,” but checked herself.  “In this young man.  It’s natural, of course; she is always so strong and well, and he is—­he seems to be, that is—­rather appealing to the—­the sympathies.”

“Yes!” he agreed, bitterly.  “Precisely.  The sympathies!”

“Perhaps,” she faltered, “perhaps you might feel easier if I could have a little talk with some one?”

“With whom?”

“I had thought of—­not going about it too brusquely, of course, but perhaps just waiting for his name to be mentioned, if I happened to be talking with somebody that knew the family—­and then I might find a chance to say that I was sorry to hear he’d been ill so much, and —­Something of that kind perhaps?”

“You don’t know anybody that knows the family.”