But where was the harm, he asked himself. They were
married all right, weren't they? Still somehow--somehow--no, by George, he
didn't like it, he didn't approve! The whole affair was decidedly mixing.
Roger went away vaguely uneasy, and he felt that Deborah was even more
disturbed than himself.
"Those two," she remarked to her father, "are so fearfully wrapt up in each
other it makes me afraid. Oh, it's all right, I suppose, and I wouldn't for
worlds try to interfere. But I can't help feeling somehow that no two
people with such an abundance of youth and money and happiness have the
right to be so amazingly--selfish!"
"They ought to have children," Roger said.
"But look at Edith," his daughter rejoined. "She hasn't a single interest
that I can find outside her home. It seems to have swallowed her, body and
soul." A frowning look of perplexity swept over Deborah's mobile face, and
with a whimsical sigh she exclaimed, "Oh, this queer business of families!"
In December there came a little crash. Late one evening Laura came bursting
in upon them in a perfect tantrum, every nerve in her lithe body tense,
her full lips visibly quivering, her voice unsteady, and her big black eyes
aflame with rage. She was jealous of her husband and "that nasty little
cat!" Roger learned no more about it, for Deborah motioned him out of the
room. He heard their two voices talk on and on, until Laura's slowly
quieted down.
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