"It depends upon the woman," was Bradley's succinct protest against sweeping generalizations.
It was crisp and clear, and the sound of their feet rang out in the still air as if they trod on glass at every step. They talked very little. Bradley wanted to tell Cargill that he had already met Miss Wilbur, but he could not see his way clear to make the explanation. Cargill was unwontedly silent.
The Norwegian girl ushered them into a pretty little parlor, where a beautiful fire of coal was burning in an open grate. While they stood warming their stiffened hands at the cheerful blaze, Ida entered.
"Mr. Cargill, this is an unexpected pleasure."
"I wonder how sincere you are in that. This is my friend Mr. Talcott."
Ida moved toward Bradley with her hand cordially extended. "I think we have met before," she said.
"I call him my friend," said Cargill, "because he has not known me long enough to become my enemy."
"That is very good, Mr. Cargill. Sit down, won't you? Please give me your coats." She moved about in that pleasant bustle of reception so natural to women.
Cargill slid down into a chair in his disjointed fashion. "We came to attend the intellectual sit-down."
"Why, that doesn't meet to-night! It meets every other Friday, and this is the other Friday."