Abbie pulled her chintz-covered rocker up closer to the screen door.

“What are you reading, Kathie?” she called.

“Michael Arlen . . . nothing but. He’s delicious. Everything he says sounds silky. Listen to this, Granny:

‘. . . love is like a hammer . . .’

‘Oh, not a hammer!’

‘A hammer, darling. It beats and beats inside him and presently it doesn’t beat so regularly, and presently it doesn’t beat at all. . . .’

“Doesn’t that just melt in your mouth?”

“The words are very clever. But not all clever words are true.”

“You said a bookful, Granny. And inversely most things that are true are not clever.”

She seemed to have everything, thought old Abbie Deal, studying her attractive granddaughter. She had the Irish wit of the O’Conners, the Scotch canniness of the Mackenzies, the German self-interest of the Lutzes, the Yankee determination of the Deals. She carried everything before her. People did whatever she wished. She breezed in and out of every setting with self-assurance. She dominated every situation with poise. She told her parents what she thought of them and handed out indiscriminate advice to any of her relatives. And through it all she looked as lovely as a picture.

And now, Abbie, thinking of what the girl had just read, to her, returned thoughtfully, “You can’t describe love, Kathie and you can’t define it. Only it goes with you all your life. I think that love is more like a light that you carry. At first childish happiness keeps it lighted and after that romance. Then motherhood lights it and then duty . . . and maybe after that sorrow. You wouldn’t think that sorrow could be a light would you, dearie? But it can. And then after that, service lights it. Yes. . . . I think that is what love is to a woman . . . a lantern in her hand.”

“Prosaic. . . . Granny, prosaic and uninteresting, albeit the romance chapter has possibilities. I choose to think of Mike’s variety that ‘beats and beats.’ It’s more thrilling.”

“You’ll see, Kathie, when it comes.”

“Heavens,—the little grandmother speaks in the future tense,—and to me, Katherine Elaine Deal, wot has had several distinct and separate love affairs.”

“Oh, Kathie, how can you speak so? . . . I doubt if one of those ‘affairs,’ as you call them, was love.”

“Oh, but they were, cher ami . . . or cher amie . . . whichever you are. They were deep, thrilling, luscious love affairs while they lasted. While they lasted. . . !” She went off into a little rippling laugh.

Abbie Deal did not argue. She did not answer. She only sat and looked out at her granddaughter, flippant, sophistitated, wise, irresponsible, lovely. Because she had a deep-rooted clannish love for all her own people, Abbie Deal loved the girl,—but she did not understand her. They lived in two worlds. No, Granny Deal and Katherine did not hit it off any too well.