After the tree in the morning, the day hung heavy on the house. Roger
buried himself in his study. Laura had motored off into the country with a
gay party of her friends. Or was this just a ruse, he wondered, and was
she spending the day with her lover? Well, what if she was? Could he lock
her in?
About twilight he thought he heard her return, and later from his bedroom
he heard her voice and Edith's. Both voices sounded angry, but he would not
interfere.
At the Christmas dinner that evening Laura did not put in an appearance,
but Edith sat stiff and silent there; and despite the obvious efforts which
Deborah and Allan made to be genial with the children, the very air in the
room was charged with the feeling of trouble close ahead. Again Roger
retreated into his den, and presently Laura came to him.
"Good-night--I'm going out," she said, and she pressed her cheek lightly to
his own. "What a dear you've been to me, dad," she murmured. And then she
was gone.
A few minutes later Edith came in. She held a small note in her hand, which
Roger saw was addressed to himself.
"Well, father, I learned this afternoon what you've been keeping from me,"
she said. Roger gave her a steady look.
"You did, eh--Laura told you?"
"Yes, she did!" his daughter exclaimed. "And I can't help wondering,
father--"
"Why did she tell you? Have you been at her again to-day?"
"Again? Not at all," she answered.
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