I knew her grandfather." "Thank Heaven!" breathed Trent, and his voice betrayed his happy reassurance.
"She's really very pretty--all the Coles were handsome--her great-aunt was once a famous beauty.

Do you remember my speaking of her--Miss Betty Coles ?" He shook his head, and she proceeded with her reminiscence.
"Well, she was said to have received fifty proposals before her twenty-fifth birthday, but she never married.

On her last visit to me, when she was a very old lady, I asked her why--and her answer was: 'Pure fastidiousness.'" She had picked up her purple shawl, and the long ivory knitting needles began to click.
"But I'm more interested in the young lady of the elevator--What is she like ?" "Not the beauty that Betty was, but still very pretty, with the same blue eyes and brown hair, which she wears parted exactly as her aunt did fifty years ago.

I fear, though," she finished in a whisper, "I really fear--that she writes." "Is that so?
Did she tell you ?" "Not in words, but she carried a parcel exactly like your manuscripts, and she spoke--oh, so seriously--of her work.

She spoke of it quite as if it were a baby." "By Jove!" he gasped, and after a moment, "I hope at any rate that she will be a comfort." With her knitting still in her hands, she rose and went to the window, where she stood placidly staring at the sunlight upon the blackened chimney-pots.