“Ah! that is because he doesn’t know,” she laughed archly. “Mr. Conover, this big splendid boy of mine is too much in love to explain as he should. And he’s so high-spirited, he can’t listen as patiently to advice as he ought to. _Can_ you, Gerald? So I came myself, when I couldn’t stand it any longer to be away from him. I knew I could make you understand. _Can’t_ I?” “I can tell better when you’ve tried,” answered Caleb, watching with a sort of awed fascination the alternate plunges and rearings of the vibrant black pompadour, which, in deference to the prevailing style of the moment—and of the chorus—was pendent directly above the visitor’s right eye. His curt rejoinder rather took the caller aback. She looked about the group as if for inspiration. Anice Lanier had risen, and was at the door. Caleb saw her. “Please don’t go, Miss Lanier!” he called. “I would much prefer to,” answered Anice, “if you don’t object. This seems to be purely a family affair and——” “And at least one person with a decently-balanced brain ought to be present. Our affairs are _your_ affairs as far as you’ll allow. Please do me the favor of staying.” The visitor had, by this diversion, regained grasp on her plan of action. “Mr. Conover,” she said, stretching out her suède-gloved hands toward the Railroader in a pretty gesture of helpless appeal as to an all-powerful judge, “I am your son’s wife. He loves me. I love him. Does that tell you nothing?” “Yes,” said Caleb judicially, “it tells me you love each other; if that’s what you mean. For the sake of argument we’ll take that for granted, just for the present. Now get down to facts.” “I am your son’s wife,” repeated the woman, somewhat less throatily, but still with brave resolve. “He sought me out and wooed me. He told me I should receive a welcome in his home. He made me love him. _Didn’t_ you, Gerald? And I married him. Ah, but we were happy, we two! Then, like a thunderbolt from the blue sky fell your command that we part. He and I. For long—oh, _so_ long—I have tried to be patient, to wait for time to soften your heart. But at last I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t _bear_ it, so I came here to meet you in person, to cast myself at your feet if need be. To——” She paused. The cold, inscrutable gaze of the Railroader’s light eyes did not tend to inspire her very creditable recitation. As a matter of fact, Caleb was at the moment paying very little attention to her words. He was noting the hard dryness of her skin and the only half-hidden lines about mouth, brow and eye; and contrasting them with Anice Lanier’s baby-smooth skin and the soft contour of her neck and cheek.