" he said.

Ellen was setting the tray for her husband's tea. "Yes ... I know," she
replied. "I--I did mention it, but 'e 'asn't moved."

"Well, take 'im out," ordered Stott, but he dropped his voice.

"Does it matter?" asked his wife. "Tea's just ready. Time that's done
'e'll be ready for 'is bath."

"Why can't you move 'im?" persisted Stott gloomily. "'E knows it's my
chair."

"There! kettle's boilin', come in and 'ave your tea," equivocated the
diplomatic Ellen.

During the progress of the meal, the child still sat quietly in his
father's chair, his little hands resting on his knees, his eyes wide
open, their gaze abstracted, as usual, from all earthly concerns.

But after tea Stott was heroic. He had reached the limit of his
endurance. One of his deep-seated habits was being broken, and with it
snapped his habit of acquiescence. He rose to his feet and faced his son
with determination, and Stott had a bull-dog quality about him that was
not easily defeated.

"Look 'ere! Get out!" he said. "That's _my_ chair!"

The child very deliberately withdrew his attention from infinity and
regarded the dogged face and set jaw of his father. Stott returned the
stare for the fraction of a second, and then his eyes wavered and
dropped, but he maintained his resolution.

"You got to get out," he said, "or I'll make you."

Ellen Mary gripped the edge of the table, but she made no attempt to
interfere.

There was a tense, strained silence. Then Stott began to breathe
heavily. He lifted his long arms for a moment and raised his eyes, he
even made a tentative step towards the usurped throne.

The child sat calm, motionless; his eyes were fixed upon his father's
face with a sublime, undeviating confidence.

Stott's arms fell to his sides again, he shuffled his feet. One more
effort he made, a sudden, vicious jerk, as though he would do the thing
quickly and be finished with it; then he shivered, his resolution broke,
and he shambled evasively to the door.

"God damn," he muttered. At the door he turned for an instant, swore
again in the same words, and went out into the night.

To Stott, moodily pacing the Common, this thing was incomprehensible,
some horrible infraction of the law of normal life, something to be
condemned; altered, if possible. It was unprecedented, and it was,
therefore, wrong, unnatural, diabolic, a violation of the sound
principles which uphold human society.

To Ellen Mary it was merely a mira