"I can't. I'm not going."

"But why?"

"Papa's not really any better," Alice said, huskily. "I'm too
worried about him to go to a dance." Her voice sounded
emotional, genuinely enough; there was something almost like a
sob in it. "Let's talk of other things, please."

He acquiesced gently; but Mrs. Adams, who had been listening to
the conversation at the open window, just overhead, did not hear
him. She had correctly interpreted the sob in Alice's voice,
and, trembling with sudden anger, she rose from her knees, and
went fiercely to her husband's room.



CHAPTER XIII

He had not undressed, and he sat beside the table, smoking his
pipe and reading his newspaper. Upon his forehead the lines in
that old pattern, the historical map of his troubles, had grown a
little vaguer lately; relaxed by the complacency of a man who not
only finds his health restored, but sees the days before him
promising once more a familiar routine that he has always liked
to follow.

As his wife came in, closing the door behind her, he looked up
cheerfully, "Well, mother," he said, "what's the news downstairs?"