"One of the Wests of West Eighth Street?" demanded his father.
The humour of it all twitched for a moment at his son's grimly set jaws, then a slight flush mantled his face:
"No, father."
"Do you mean the Chelsea Wests, Louis?"
"No."
"Then we—don't know them," concluded his father with a shrug of his shoulders, which dismissed many, many things from any possibility of further discussion. But his mother's face grew troubled.
"Who is this Miss West?" she asked in a colourless voice.
"She is a very good, very noble, very cultivated, very beautiful young girl—an orphan—who is supporting herself by her own endeavours."
"What!" said his father, astonished.
"Mother, I know how it sounds to you, but you and father have only to meet her to recognise in her every quality that you could possibly wish for in my wife."