"We decided to have no guest room," he heard Laura say to Deborah. And
glancing at his daughter then, sleek and smiling and demure, in her
tea-gown fresh from Paris, Roger darkly told himself that a child would be
an unwelcome guest. The whole place was as compact and sparkling as a jewel
box. The bed chamber was luxurious, with a gorgeous bath adjoining and a
dressing-room for Harold.
"And look at this love of a closet!" said Laura to Deborah eagerly. "Isn't
it simply enormous?" As Deborah looked, her father did, too, and his eye
was met by an array of shimmering apparel which made him draw back almost
with a start.
They found Harold in the pantry. Their Jap, it appeared, was a marvellous
cook and did the catering as well, so that Laura rarely troubled herself
to order so much as a single meal. But her husband had for many years been
famous for his cocktails, and although the Jap did everything else Hal had
kept this in his own hands.
"I thought this much of the house-keeping ought to remain in the family,"
he said.
Roger did not like this joke. But later, when he had imbibed the delicious
concoction Harold had made, and had eaten the dinner created by that
Japanese artist of theirs, his irritation subsided.
"They barely know we're here," he thought. "They're both in love up to
their ears."
Despite their genial attempts to be hospitable and friendly, time and again
he saw their glances meet in an intimate gleaming manner which made him
rather uncomfortable.
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