"
"That's rot," was Edith's curt reply. "Do I lead my own life? Does Bruce?
Do you?"
"No," growled Roger feelingly.
"Do my children?" Edith demanded. "I know Deborah would like them to.
That's her latest and most modern fad, to run a school where every child
shall sit with a rat in its lap or a goat, and do just what he
pleases--follow his natural bent, she says. I hope she won't come up to the
mountains and practice on my children. I should hate to break with
Deborah," Edith ended thoughtfully.
Roger rose and walked the room. The comforting idea entered his mind that
when the wedding was over he would take out his collection of rings and
carefully polish every one. But even this hope did not stay with him long.
"With Laura at home," he heard Edith continue, "you at least had a daughter
to run your house. If Deborah tries to move you out--"
"She won't!" cried Roger in alarm.
"If she does," persisted Edith, "or if she begins any talk of the kind--you
come to me and _I'll_ talk to her!"
Her father walked in silence, his head down, frowning at the floor.
"It seems funny," Edith continued, "that women like me who give children
their lives, and men like Bruce who are building New York--actually doing
it all the time--have so little to say in these modern ideas. I suppose
it's because we're a little too real."
"To come back to the wedding," Roger suggested.
"To come back to the wedding, father dear," his daughter said
compassionately.
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