"You look tired, dad. Hadn't you better go home now?" she suggested after a
moment.
"Yes," said Roger, rising. "Good-night, my child. Remember."
In the outer hallway he found Deborah with Laura. Laura had been here
several times. She was getting Edith's mourning.
"There's a love of a hat at Thurn's," she was saying softly, "if only we
can get her to wear it. It's just her type." And Laura drew an anxious
breath. "Anything," she added, "to escape that hideous heavy crepe."
Roger slightly raised his brows. He noticed a faint delicious perfume that
irritated him suddenly. But glancing again at his daughter, trim, fresh and
so immaculate, the joy of life barely concealed in her eyes, he stopped and
talked and smiled at her, as Deborah was doing, enjoying her beauty and her
youth, her love and all her happiness. And though they spoke of her sister,
she knew they were thinking of herself, and that it was quite right they
should, for it gave them a little relief from their gloom. She was honestly
sorry for Edith, but she was sorrier still for Bruce, who she knew had
always liked her more than he would have cared to say. She was sorrier for
Bruce because, while Edith had lost only her husband, Bruce had lost his
very life. And life meant so much to Laura, these days, the glowing,
coursing, vibrant life of her warm beautiful body. She was thinking of that
as she stood in the hall.
* * * * *
In the evening, at home in his study, Roger heard a slight knock at the
door.
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