She came over to him and put her hand on his shoulder. "Your room's
just next to mine," she said. "You and I are going to sleep on this.
To-morrow we'll have a real day of it, as I promised. If you want to
spend it with the fellows, say so. I'm not going to spoil this little
lark that I promised you."

"I think," said the boy, looking up into his mother's face, "I think
that I'll spend it with you."

The door slammed after him.

Emma McChesney remained standing there, in the center of the room. She
raised her arms and passed a hand over her forehead and across her
hair until it rested on the glossy knot at the back of her head. It
was the weary little gesture of a weary, heart-sick woman.

There came a ring at the 'phone.

Emma McChesney crossed the room and picked up the receiver.

"Hello, Mary Cutting," she said, without waiting for the voice at the
other end. "What? Oh, I just knew. No, it's all right. I've had some
high-class little theatricals of my own, right here, with me in the
roles of leading lady, ingenue, villainess, star, and heavy mother.
I've got Mrs. Fiske looking like a First Reader Room kid that's
forgotten her Friday piece. What's that?"

There was no sound in the room but the hollow cackle of the voice at
the other end of the wire, many miles away.