She felt Marsh's eyes on her, sardonically.

She straightened herself, saying with affectionate roughness, "There,
that's enough. Scamper along with you. And don't run around with bare
feet!"

She thought to herself that she supposed this was the sort of thing
Marsh meant when he spoke about hot-house enervating concentration. She
had been more stung by that remark of his than she had been willing to
acknowledge to Marsh or to herself.

But for the moment, any further reflection on it was cut short by the
aspect of Mr. Welles' face. He had sunk into a chair near the lamp, with
an attitude and an expression of such weariness, that Marise moved
quickly to him. "See here, Mr. Welles," she said impulsively, "you have
something on your mind, and I've got the mother-habit so fastened on me
that I can't be discreet and pretend not to notice it. I want to make
you say what the trouble is, and then flu it right, just as I would for
one of mine."

The old man looked up at her gratefully and reaching out one of his
wrinkled hands took hers in it. "It does me good to have you so nice to
me," he said, "but I'm afraid even you can't fix it right. I've had a
rather distressing letter today, and I can't seem to get it out of my
mind."

"Schwatzkummerer can't send the gladioli," conjectured Marsh.

For the first time since he had entered the house, Marise felt a passing