away?' Don't lean on that knee, that's where
the rheumatism is--do you mean died?"

Suzanna flinched. "We say 'went away,'" she answered gently; "you think
then that someone you loved has just gone away for a little while, and
is waiting somewhere for you."

The man's gaze wandered up to the lovely, smiling face above the mantel
and stayed there a space before his eyes came back to Suzanna.

"And so," she finished, "because everything came together, rent and
insurance and shoes, and a coat, I had to wear these slippers." Suzanna
was quite cheerful again, only very eager that he should understand the
situation.

At this moment the timid little valet appeared in the doorway. "Anything
you wish, sir?" he began. "Are you quite comfortable?"

"You infernal idiot!" bawled the man in the chair. "Can anyone be
comfortable with rheumatism in his knee?"

The little man precipitately retired. "You're awful cross," Suzanna
commented. "What does the man mean asking if you're 'comfortable?'
That's what Miss Massey asked me in the park carriage. I was sitting
down, and nothing hurt me."

"In other words," he answered, strangely catching her meaning at once,
"one chair is like another to you."

"Well, is there any difference?" she queried. She was very much
interested in this question, for the subtleties of refined comfort held
no place in her life. Knowledge of luxuries was quite outside the ken of
the younger members of the Procter family.

The big man said: "Yes, there is a difference; a decided difference." He
was thinking of his household with its retinue of trained servants, each
helping to make the days revolve smoothly.

"Why aren't you at work?" asked Suzanna then. "My father works every day
in the hardware store and sometimes way into the night on his invention
in the attic. _He_ doesn't have a chair filled with pillows to lean
against. Does God like you better than He does us?"

"Eh, what's that? What do you mean?"

"Because you don't have to work! And you think one chair is better than
another to sit in, and you can shout at the little man and make him
afraid."

"Well, we'll not talk of that," said the big man testily. "And now I'll
ask you a few questions. What does your mother do when rent week comes
round? Cry, and throw up to your father the fact that she can't make
ends meet? That's what women generally do, I've heard and read."

"Oh, no, my mother doesn't do that," said Suzanna, shaking her head.
"Sh