d away. To be quiet, to be matter of fact, to act as
though nothing had happened at all--she knew this was what he wanted now,
what he was silently begging her to be for his sake, for the family's sake.
For he had been raised in New England. And so, when she turned back to him,
her voice was flat and commonplace.

"Keep her here," she said. "Let him do what he likes. There'll be nothing
noisy, he promised me that. But keep her here till it's over."

Roger smoked for a moment, and said,

"There's Edith and her children."

"The children needn't know anything--and Edith only part of it."

"The less, the better," he grunted.

"Of course." She looked at him anxiously. This tractable mood of his might
not last. "Why not go up and see her now--and get it all over--so you can
sleep."

Over Roger's set heavy visage flitted a smile of grim relish at that.
Sleep! Deborah was funny. Resolutely he rose from his chair.

"You'll be careful, of course," she admonished him, and he nodded in reply.
At the door he turned back:

"Where's the other chap?"

"I don't know," she answered. "Surely you don't want to see _him_--." Her
father snorted his contempt:

"See him? No. Nor she neither. _She's_ not to see him. Understand?"

"I wouldn't tell her that to-night."

"Look here." Roger eyed his daughter a moment.

"You've done well. I've no complaint. But don't try to manage everything."

He went out and slowly climbed the stairs. Outside the bedroom door he
paused. When had he stood like this before? In a moment he remembered. One
evening some two years ago, the night before Laura's wedding, when they had
had that other talk. And so it had come to this, had it. Well, there was no
use making a scene. Again, with a sigh of weariness, Laura's father knocked
at her door.

"Come in, Deborah," she said.

"It isn't Deborah, it's I." There was a little silence.

"Very well, father, come in, please." Her voice sounded tired and lifeless.
He opened the door and found the room dark. "I'm over on the bed," she
said. "I've had a headache this evening."

He came over to the bedside and he could just see her there, a long shadow
upon the white. She had not taken off her clothes. He stood a moment
helplessly.

"Please don't _you_ talk to me!" His daughter fiercely whispered. "I can't
stand any more to-night!"

"I won't," he answered. "It's too late." Again there was a pause.

"What time is it?" she asked him. But he did not answer.