Deborah's visit, the following week, was as he had expected. Within an hour
after her coming he could feel the tension grow. Deborah herself was tense,
both from the work she had left in New York where she was soon to have five
schools, and from the thought of her marriage, only a few weeks ahead. She
said nothing about it, however, until as a sisterly duty Edith tried to
draw her out by showing an interest in her plans. But the cloud of Bruce's
death was there, and Deborah shunned the topic. She tried to talk of the
children instead. But Edith at once was on the defensive, vigilant for
trouble, and as she unfolded her winter plans she grew distinctly brief and
curt.
"If Deborah doesn't see it now, she's a fool," her father told himself.
"I'll just wait a few days more, and then we'll have that little talk."
CHAPTER XXIV
It had rained so hard for the past two days that no one had gone to the
village, which was nearly three miles from the farm. But when the storm was
over at last, George and Elizabeth tramped down and came back at dusk with
a bag full of mail. Their clothes were mud-bespattered and they hurried
upstairs to change before supper, while Roger settled back in his chair and
spread open his New York paper. It was July 30, 1914.
From a habit grown out of thirty odd years of business life, Roger read his
paper in a fashion of his own. By instinct his eye swept the page for news
dealing with individual men, for it was upon people's names in print that
he had made his living.
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