Mrs. Beale had her saucy little cap off, and was brushing out her thin,
light locks in which the gray showed slightly. But she stopped long
enough to explain. "He isn't half as sentimental as his name. I met him
in Chicago at the Warburtons', just before I made a success of my book.
I was very tired, and he cheered me a lot. He's from Denver, and he made
his money in mines. He hasn't married, because he hasn't had time. We're
awfully good friends, but he doesn't know my age. He knows that I have a
daughter, but not a grand-daughter. He thinks of me as a young
woman--not as a grandmother-creature in black silk and mitts--"
"_Mother_! nobody expects you to wear black silk and mitts--"
"Well, you expect me to have a black-silk-and-mitt mind. You know you
are thinking this very minute that there is no idiot like an old
one--Cecily--"