"I was wrong," he reflected, "she has been trying--but it doesn't do any
good. Women simply haven't it in 'em to see each other's point of view.
Deborah doesn't admire Edith--she can't, she only pities her and puts her
down as out of date. And Edith feels that, and it gets her riled, and she
sets herself like an angry old hen against all Deborah's new ideas. Why the
devil can't they live and let live?"

And he hesitated savagely between a pearl gray _and_ a black cravat. Then
he heard another step on the stairs. It was much slower than Deborah's, and
cautious and dogged, one foot lifted carefully after the other. It was
John, who had finished his kitchen supper and was silently making his way
up through the house to his room at the top, there to keep out of sight for
the evening. And it came into Roger's mind that John had been acting in
just this fashion ever since Edith had been in the house.

"We'll have trouble there, too!" he told himself, as he jerked the black
satin cravat into place, a tie he thoroughly disliked. Yes, black, by
George, he felt like it to-night! These women! These evenings! This worry!
This war! This world gone raving, driveling mad!

And frowning with annoyance, Roger went down to his dinner.

As he waited he grew impatient. He had eaten no lunch, he was hungry; and
he was very tired, too, for he had had his own hard day. Pshaw! He got up
angrily. _Somebody_ must be genial here. He went into the dining room and
poured himself a good stiff drink. Roger had never been much of a drinker.
Ever since his marriage, cigars had been his only vice. But of late he had
been having curious little sinking spells. They worried him, and he told
himself he could not afford to get either too tired or too faint.

Nevertheless, he reflected, it was setting a bad example for George. But
glancing into his study he saw that the lad was completely absorbed. With
knees drawn up, his long lank form all hunched and huddled on the lounge,
hair rumpled, George was reading a book which had a cover of tough gray
cloth. At the sight of it his grandfather smiled, for he had seen it once
before. Where George had obtained it, the Lord only knew. Its title was
"Bulls and Breeding." A thoroughly practical little book, but nothing for
George's mother to see. As his grandfather entered behind him, the boy
looked up with a guilty start, and resumed with a short breath of relief.

Young Elizabeth, too, had a furtive air, for ins