One night at dinner, watching her, he
wondered what was on her mind. She had come in late, and though several
times she had made an effort to keep up the conversation, her cheeks were
almost colorless and more than once in her deepset eyes came a flash of
pain that startled him.
"Look here. What's the matter with you?" he asked. Deborah looked up
quickly.
"I'd rather not talk about it, dad--"
"Very well," he answered. And with a slight hesitation, "But I think I know
the trouble," he said. "And perhaps some other time--when you do feel like
talking--" He stopped, for on her wide sensitive lips he saw a twitch of
amusement.
"What do you think is the trouble?" she asked. And Roger looked at her
squarely.
"Loneliness," he answered.
"Why?" she asked him.
"Well, there's Edith's baby--and Laura getting married--"
"I see--and so I'm lonely for a family of my own. But you're forgetting my
school," she said.
"Yes, yes, I know," he retorted. "But that's not at all the same.
Interesting work, no doubt, but--well, it isn't personal."
"Oh, isn't it?" she answered, and she drew a quivering breath. Rising from
the table she went into the living room, and there a few moments later he
found her walking up and down. "I think I will tell you now," she said.
"I'm afraid of being alone to-night, of keeping this matter to myself." He
looked at her apprehensively.
"Very well, my dear," he said.
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