"I suppose so," assented George, dubiously.
"Her father won't see her, I hear. I'd like such a father. Her sister can't do anything with him."
"Her sister?"
"Yes; she's got about as much influence as anybody. Have you seen her?"
"Yes. Are you very well acquainted with her?" he asked.
"Not very. She belongs to the next older generation."
"How much older? Two or three years?"
"Twenty or thirty. She's about the same age as her mother. But more useful. Mayme thinks everything of her. She's a good, steady, plodding stay-at-home. She ought to have been let out and given a show—she's buried there. He makes her do lots of work."
"Her father?"
"Yes. She writes and figures a good deal of the time. She keeps the grocer's and butcher's books, for one thing. Mayme says she knows how to telegraph—they've got their own wire right to the house. When she wants dissipation she goes to her 'Friendly.' And she belongs to a club over there where they read papers and discuss. She was a good deal upset."