"Aunt Connie has always seemed rather a fabulous creature—a sort of myth—to me," she said. "I can't quite realize her. Would you like me to go to Cannes and fetch both her and 'Old Stephen' home?"
Madame Claire thought not.
"It's very odd you should have had three children so entirely different," said Judy. "They all had exactly the same environment and the same care. How on earth do you account for these things?"
"I don't," replied her grandmother. "I can merely suppose that they all require different experiences; and they're certainly getting them." Her eyes rested on Judy in her brown dress and furs, and on her face with its challenging dark eyes and the too wide mouth that she loved. She wondered what experiences would be hers. Not Connie's; and even more surely, not Millicent's. So far her life had been even and tranquil—too tranquil for her own liking. She wanted to live. She had a great deal to give to life—and so far she had not lived at all.
"I suppose, like every one else," went on Madame Claire, "they are working out something—I don't know what. After all, my children are just people. So many mothers think of their own
