went to. Old Mr. Kimball was a clerk, and the son, the man who was drowned the other day, began like that too. The old people died about the time young Mr. Kimball and his sister grew up. She kept house for her brother. He began as a broker and got on. In a way—my father always says that—in a way he was devoted to her. Nothing he could pay for was too good for her. He always wanted her with him. But he made awful demands on her. She mustn't have any interests of her own. She mustn't make any friends. Like some men are with their wives, you know. Horrible, isn't it?" She turned upon Reggie.
"Common form of selfishness. Passing into mania. Not only male, you know. Some mothers are like that."
"Yes, I know they are. But it's worst with men and their wives."
"The wife can't grow up. The children can," Reggie agreed.
"It is exactly that," said she eagerly. "You understand. Oh, well, this isn't business-like either. Ellen Kimball fell in love. He was just an ordinary sort of man, a clerk of some sort—Sandford was his name. Horace Kimball was furious. My father says Sandford was nothing in particular. There was no special reason why she should marry him or why she shouldn't. He was insignificant."
"Heredity." Reggie nodded to Lomas.
