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“Got her hands?” exclaimed Paul the practical. “Inherited them of course, even the skin-deep profundity of palmistry is not required to guess a diagnosis for that.”

The Doctor’s eyes again twinkled. “Whom did she inherit them from?”

“Father and mother,—what nonsense to ask!”

“Why not her grandparents?”

“Give it up,” said Paul. “Take things as they are.”

Now, the result of this decidedly mixed but suggestive conversation was to excite curiosity in both the Doctor and Paul. Not that they formed a conspiracy to learn about Miss Cultus’ forbears; quite the contrary. Simply by friction in time they learned something of the natural causes which had produced her charming personality, so attractive to all who met her.

That they both had been led to respect and admire her upon short acquaintance was only too evident,—on the surface. What was not quite so evident, for neither of them had said so, was that each had noticed her devotion to her mother, constant, ever thoughtful, as if to make her appear to the best advantage: as to her father, she simply idolized him.