"Perhaps it is the individual mother's solicitude for her own particular child which makes the feminine influence a great moral force," Rodman ventured.
"Perhaps," carelessly. "Now Nancy has a set of wine-glasses that it is a shame not to use." He slapped his hands to warm them. "Let's take a long walk, Rod. I exercise to keep the fat down."
"I exercise because it is a good old world to walk in," and Rodman swung his long lean legs into an easy stride.
They picked David up as they passed his little house. They climbed the hill till they came to the edge of the wood where David had cut the tree.
There was a sunset over the frozen river as they turned to look at it. The river sang no songs to-day. It was as still and silent as their own dead youth. Yet above it was the clear gold of the evening sky.
"The last time we came we were boys," Brinsley said, "and I was in love with Cynthia Warfield. And we were both in love with her, David; do you remember?"
David did remember. "Anne is like her."
Rodman protested. "She is and she isn't. Anne has none of Cynthia's faults."
Brinsley chuckled. "I'll bet you've spoiled her."
"No, I haven't. But Anne has had to work and wait for things, and it hasn't hurt her."