forty came up the tree-shaded street, not quite
steadily, and turned into the King's walk. His hat was pulled low over
his eyes and the collar of his coat was turned up in spite of the
mildness of the day. He nodded to the boy and girl as he went past them
and on into the house.

"_Again!_" said Mrs. Lorimer, tragically. "That's the second time this
week!"

"Rough on the kid," said her husband. "See him now."

Jimsy King had turned his head and was following his father's slow
progress up the steps and across the porch and into the house. "Be in in
a minute, Dad!" he called after him.

"Loyal little beggar. I saw him steering him up Broadway one morning,
just at school time. Pluck."

Honor had looked after James King, the elder, too, and then at his son,
and then at the football in her hands again. "Hurry up," she commanded.
"Pull it tighter! _Tighter!_ Do you call that pulling?" Inexorably she
got his attention back to the subject in hand.

"That makes it all the worse," said Mrs. Lorimer. "Of course they're
only children--babies, really--but I couldn't have anything.... It's bad
blood, Stephen. I _couldn't_ have my child interested in one of the
'Wild Kings'!"

"Well, you won't have, if you're wise. Let 'em alone. Let 'em lace
footballs on the front lawn ... and they won't hold hands on the side
porch! Why, woman dear, like the well-known Mr. Job, the thing you
greatly fear you'll bring to pass! Shut her up in a girls' school--even
the best and sanest--and you'll make boys suddenly into creatures of
romance, remote, desirable. Don't emphasize and underline for her. She's
as clean as a star and as unself-conscious as a puppy! Don't hurry her
into what one of those English play-writing chaps calls--Granville
Barker, isn't it?--Yes,--_Madras House_--'the barnyard drama of sex....
Male and female created He them ... but men and women are a long time
in the making!'"

The lacing of the football was finished. The boy lifted his head and
looked soberly at the door through which his father had entered, not
quite steadily. Then he drew a long breath, threw back his shining
bronze head, said something in a low tone to the girl, and ran into the
house.

Honor Carmody got to her feet and stood looking after him, the odd
mothering look in her square child's face. She stood so for long
moments, without moving, and her mother and her stepfather watched her.

Suddenly Stephen Lorimer flung the window up as far as it would