He would have realized that he was protesting too much even if he had not
read that comment in his sister's face. But somehow he couldn't have
pulled himself up but for old Nat's appearance with the platter of ham
and eggs and the first installment of the wheat cakes. He was really
hungry and he settled down to them in silence.

And, watching him between the little bites of dry toast and sips of
coffee, Miss Wollaston talked about Portia Stanton. Everybody, indeed,
was talking about Portia these days but Miss Wollaston had a special
privilege. She had known Portia's mother rather well,--Naomi Rutledge
Stanton, the suffrage leader, she was--and she had always liked and
admired Portia; liked her better than the younger and more sensational
daughter, Rose.

Miss Wollaston hoped, hoped with all her heart that Portia had not made
a tragic mistake in this matter of her marriage. She couldn't herself
quite see how a sensible girl like Portia could have done anything so
reckless as to marry a romantic young Italian pianist, ten years at
least her junior. It couldn't be denied that the experiment seemed to
have worked well so far. Portia certainly seemed happy enough last
night; contented. There was a sort of glow about her there never was
before. But the question was how long would it last. How long would it
be before those big brown Italian eyes began looking soulfully at
somebody else; somebody more....

It was here that Miss Wollaston chopped herself off short, hearing--this
time it was no false alarm--Paula's step in the hall. She'd have been
amazed, scandalized, profoundly indignant, dear good-hearted lady that
she was, had some expert in the psychology of the unconscious pointed