complete absorption in your work is not healthy. The doctor has warned
you not to shut yourself up in this room for hours, and particularly that
you are not to lock your door on the inside. Remember your recent attacks
of vertigo."

"McLane's an ass. The vertigo sprang from indigestion; hereafter, I'll be
more careful what I eat," he protested. "There's nothing the matter with
this room; it's well ventilated and heated. And I will lock my door--I
won't be interrupted by any jackass servant wanting to feed me
pap"--pointing scornfully toward the hall where a tray laden with a
teapot and tempting dishes stood on a table near the door. "Do you not
yet realize, Minna, that this is my life work?" With a sweeping gesture
he indicated the models, brass, wood, and wax, which filled every cranny
of the sparsely furnished room.

Mrs. Whitney sighed. The room was her bugbear. She had dignified it with
the name of "studio," but it looked what it was--a workshop. Winslow
Whitney, considered in clubdom as a dilettante and known to scientists as
an inventor of ability, frowned impatiently as he observed his wife's air
of disapprobation.

"My dear, we must agree to disagree," he said, lowering his voice. "My
brain is carrying too much just now; I cannot be confused by side issues.
Everything must wait until my invention is completed."

"Is your daughter's welfare of secondary importance?"

"What?" Whitney surveyed his wife in startled surprise, and her handsome
face flushed under his scrutiny. "What is the matter with Kathleen's
welfare? Do I illtreat her? Is she refused money? Do I make her spend