She was led upstairs by her daughter-in-law.
Mrs. Lewis patted the hair behind her ear with a brisk gesture.
"I don't confess to any special grubbiness," she said with her remorselessly exact enunciation. "Well, Nan, that's what sons do to their mothers; almost consoles me for never having had a son. Letty thinks she's perfection—that's marriage, I suppose. How do you think Letty seems?"
"Wonderful—wonderfully happy, Mrs. Lewis."
"She ought to be. Roger is a very splendid person."
"You really like him?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Lewis as one facing a possible charge of sentimentality; "yes, I really do."
"No criticisms at all?"
"Oh, come, Nan," answered the older woman, "remember who it is you're talking to. When you find me without criticisms you'll find me in my grave. I have endless criticism of him—of that cooing aged seraph who has just gone up to powder her elderly nose—even of my own daughter; but still, I do say that Roger is a fine man as men go—and that is saying a good deal."