The professor lit a cigarette, after due preliminaries. Mrs. Ladue had finished, apparently. She had come down rather to enjoy the rare occasion than to eat. Perhaps it was a knowledge of that fact which had kept the professor going and a desire--an inexplicable desire--on his part to keep her in her state of happiness. It was seldom possible to account for his actions. At all events, he was accomplishing that end. It was a great pity that his desires did not always run in that direction. It would have been so easy; so very easy for him, and it would have made his wife so very happy. But the time when that would have done any great good may have passed already. The professor followed out his programme religiously, talking when he felt like it, always a pleasant and cheerful flow of irresponsible talk, and loafing conscientiously for half an hour. Mrs. Ladue sat still, saying little, afraid to move lest the movement break the spell. Charlie had slipped out, unnoticed. Presently there was a great noise on the cellar stairs, sounding like distant thunder. The noise stopped for a moment. "What's going on?" asked the professor casually. "Socialists in the cellar? Not that I care," he added, with a wave of his cigarette. "Mere curiosity. I should be glad to meet any socialists; but not in the cellar." Mrs. Ladue laughed gently. It was a long time since the professor had heard her laugh. That thought occurred to him. "You will, I think. They are opening the cellar door now. There they come." For the noise had resumed, and was approaching along the hall. The door of the dining-room swung open suddenly and Charlie entered, earnest and intent and covered with dust and cobwebs. Behind him dragged three snow-shovels, also covered with dust and cobwebs. Sally sprang for him. "Oh, Charlie--" He brushed her aside. "I brung your shovel, father," he said, "an' Sally's. I couldn't lift 'em all at once, an' so I dragged 'em." The professor bowed. "So I gathered," he replied. "I thank you, Charles." "But, Charlie," Sally cried, "you're all over dust and so are the shovels. They ought to have been dusted." Charlie had dropped the shovels on the floor, thinking his mission ended. Now he leaned over and thoughtfully wiped the shovels, one after another, with his hand. "They are," he said, gazing at his grimy hand, "aren't they? But it was dark an' I couldn't see. Besides, the snow'll clean 'em. I want to shovel an' race, father," he added, somewhat impatiently. "Isn't it time yet?" "Charlie," said his father, throwing away his cigarette, "in the words of Friar Bacon's brass head, time is. Come on." CHAPTER VII