He turned away. Emma McChesney brought her handkerchief up to her
mouth and held it there a moment, and the skin showed white over the
knuckles of her hand. in that moment every one of her thirty-six years
were on the table, face up.

"We'll wash up," said Emma McChesney, when he returned, "and then
we'll have dinner here."

"I don't want to eat here," objected Jock McChesney. "Besides, there's
no reason why I can't keep my evening's engagements."

"And after dinner," went on his mother, as though she had not heard,
"we'll get acquainted, Kid."

It was a cheerless, rather tragic meal, though Emma McChesney saw it
through from soup to finger-bowls. When it was over she led the way
down the old-fashioned, red-carpeted corridors to her room. It was the
sort of room to get on its occupant's nerves at any time, with its red
plush arm-chairs, its black walnut bed, and its walnut center table
inlaid with an apoplectic slab of purplish marble.

[Illustration: "'I'm still in position to enforce that ordinance
against pouting'"]

Emma McChesney took off her hat before the dim old mirror, and stood
there, fluffing out her hair here, patting it there. Jock had thrown
his hat and coat on the bed. He stood now, leaning against the
footboard, his legs crossed, his chin on his breast, his whole
attitude breathing sullen defiance.