"Yes, I think I do, Mrs. Thayer; and I will try—so hard!" She hesitated, then asked abruptly, "Who is Mr. Donald Estey, please?"
There was an odd something in Mrs. Thayer's laugh as she answered.
"And why, pray, do you single him out?"
"Because of something—different in your voice, when you said his name."
Mrs. Thayer laughed again.
"That's more cleverly put than you know, child," she shrugged. "I never thought of it before, but I fancy we all do say Mr. Donald Estey's name—with a difference."
"Is he so very important, then?"
"In his own estimation—yes! There! I was wrong to say that, Helen, and you must forget it. Mr. Donald Estey is a very wealthy, very capable, very delightful and brilliant young bachelor. He is a little spoiled, perhaps; but that's our fault and not his, I suspect, for he's petted and made of enough to turn any man's head. He's very entertaining. He knows something about everything. He can talk Egyptian scarabs with my brother, and Irish crochet with me, and then turn around and discuss politics with my husband, and quote poetry to Phillis Drew in the next breath. All this, of course, makes him a very popular man."
"But he's a—a real gentleman, the kind that my husband would like?"
"Why, of—of course!" Mrs. Thayer frowned slightly; then, suddenly, she laughed. "To tell the truth he's very like your husband, in some ways, I've heard my brother say—tastes, temperament, and so forth."