"Always saying something, Constance." And suddenly she flew into the caress of the other. "I haven't become used to such words, yet, and you'll have to be careful in using them. Because," and here she buried her head against the other's shoulder, "I might be likely to boo-hoo." The three laughed it away now.
"Constance tells me, Miss Latham," said Wilson, "that you are an agent, sophisticated in all the arts that result in a sale." His eyes now sought hers with unfeigned admiration.
"Constance is, too; and did she not mention herself?" She rated Constance now the least bit severely. "You never give yourself credit for anything. Why don't you?" She frowned, but it was too grateful—her appearance—to be accepted seriously.
"How many copies are both of you delivering weekly now?" he inquired.
"We delivered eighty-seven this week so far, and forty-five last week," replied Mildred, sitting very close to his sister on a small settee.
"Have you ever thought, Mildred," said Constance, "that selling a book, or anything, for that matter, is a task within itself, calling always for initiative. The average person has not the courage, at least he has not practiced it, that would make a salesman or saleswoman. All of us, with possibly a few exceptions, are chattels, human chattels. The ordinary person would stand on his head on a nail for an hour, if someone told him that was right; whereas, to take upon himself the task of leading anything, he is an utter failure."
"Constance is psychological today, don't you think?" smiled her brother; but Mildred accepted the words seriously and listened for more. Constance had a turn of logic, and was in the habit, Mildred had learned, of saying some very serious things at times; although she could not be regarded as entirely serious.
"That is why I think you are so successful, Mildred," she went on. "You seem to be possessed with initiative; it seems a part of your construction; you seem charged with it; and, in addition to this, is your kind regard and appreciation, for another's point of view."
"Oh, please don't tell me so many nice things. I can't believe it; I have never seen myself in the way you speak of, and if you persist, dear," and her smile upon Constance was the softest, "you might make me vain—and I would almost rather be anything than vain—and spoil it all. Here!" She kissed her a long lingering kiss, and then flew to her room.
"Wilson," said his sister, when they were alone again, "when I think of the young man and his experiences in the story, and his make-up and point of view, I find myself connecting Mildred. She fills my dreams in that story as the One Woman. How successful and how happy that man could have been, had he had a treasure like her, for his own."