“Ruthlessness appears to be a purely female trait.” Miss Storms’ half humorous air was full of bitterness. “Oh, I’ll do it all right,” Jim promised. “Don’t you worry.” “I won’t. I’ll call you up and give you the ammunition early in the morning.” “We’re only two blocks from the office. Let me out here,” requested Jim, observing the buildings. “Good-bye.” “Good-bye, Jim.” They shook hands warmly. * * * * * John’s expression as he came into the house in the evening was worried and uncertain. He had left the office a little earlier than usual and reached Rosedene on a train which arrived there before the customary hour. He found Lucy, Dimmie, and Nannie sitting in the dining room. Lucy was reading aloud to Dimmie from a book of fairy tales and Mrs. Merwent was embroidering some underwear she had purchased on the previous day in consultation with Miss Powell. As John entered both women ceased their employment. “Did you find everything all right at the office?” Lucy inquired with her usual simple manner. “And are you all tired out, John?” added Nannie, smiling at him. “No, I’m not tired,” he answered. “I was worried, that’s all.” As he spoke, he seated himself and lit a cigarette. “Don’t worry, John,” Lucy said, drawing Dimmie to her side. “No,” supplemented Mrs. Merwent. “There’s nothing to worry about, you poor boy.” “Well, I’m glad if there isn’t.” He drew a long breath. “I’m going down town again in the morning,” Nannie continued a moment later. “I just must get some more of this _lingérie_. It’s perfectly lovely. I’m going to show you _part_ of what I bought after dinner, John.” She laughed coquettishly. “Anyone would think you were making a _trousseau_,” he commented jealously. Nannie became suddenly serious. “No, John. Not for the present, at least.” There was a brief pause. “I see Carter’s are selling out. You might add to your collection there, Mamma.” Lucy’s hands moved uneasily over Dimmie’s hair as she talked. As she turned toward the child the light falling on her face revealed its haggard outlines. No one responded to her remark. She glanced up and caught John’s gaze fixed on her mother. He drew another sigh of evident relief. “Do you know,” he began with something of his old expansive manner, pushing his hair back from his forehead, “I went to see the sculptures of that new Polish artist today at lunch time. He is the beginning of a new movement away from the Rodin worship of sex and emotion in art.” “I don’t think they ought to allow some statues to be exhibited,” declared Nannie.