One daughter at a time, he had thought. And as the dark
clouds close above him had cleared, the other cloud too had drifted away,
until it was small, just on the horizon, far away from Roger's house. What
was Laura up to? He barely ever thought of that now.
* * * * *
But one night when he came home, Edith, who sat in the living room reading
aloud to her smaller boys, gave him a significant look which warned him
something had happened. And turning to take off his overcoat, in the hall
he almost stumbled upon a pile of hand luggage, two smart patent leather
bags, a hat trunk and a sable cloak.
"Hello," he exclaimed. "What's this? Who's here?"
"Laura," Edith answered. "She's up in Deborah's room, I think--they've been
up there for over an hour." Roger looked indignantly in at his daughter.
"What has happened?" he asked.
"I'm afraid I can't tell you," Edith replied. "They didn't seem to need me.
They made it rather plain, in fact. Another quarrel, I presume. She came
into the house like a whirlwind, asked at once for Deborah and flew up to
Deborah's room."
"Pshaw!" Roger heavily mounted the stairs. He at least did not feel like
flying. A whirlwind, eh--a nice evening ahead!
* * * * *
Meanwhile, in her room upstairs Deborah sat motionless, sternly holding her
feelings down, while in a tone now kindly but more often full of a sharp
dismay, she threw out question after question to Laura who was walking the
floor in a quick, feverish sort of way, with gestures half hysterical, her
voice bursting with emotions of mingled fright and rage.
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