Even aunt Deely has only pleasant things to say of 'young Forsythe,' as she calls him." Gifford left his chair, and began to walk about the room, his hands grasping the lapels of his coat, and his head thrown back in a troubled sort of impatience.

"That's just it," he said; "in this very letter aunt Ruth is enthusiastic, and I can't tell you anything tangible against him, only I don't like him, Helen.

He's a puppy,--that's the amount of it.

And I thought--I just thought--I'd come and ask you if you supposed--if you--of course I've no business to ask any question--but if you thought"-- But Helen had understood his vague inquiry, "I should think," she said "you would know that if he is what you call a _puppy_ Lois couldn't care for him." Gifford sat down, and took her ball of wool, beginning nervously to unwind it, and then wind it up again.
"Perhaps she wouldn't see it," he said tentatively.
"Ah, you don't trust her!" Helen cried brightly, "or you would not say that.

(Don't tie my worsted into knots!) When you write to Lois, why don't you frankly say what you think of him ?" "Oh, I could not," he responded quickly.