When they went down again they found that Ellen had spread a cloth on a little table before the fire and left supper there for them. She went out. They heard the back door close and her firm heavy footsteps crunch through the snow. And embarrassment settled over the man and the woman sitting in such apparent comfort there. They were paying already for that leap to emotional conclusions. Each of them asking fearfully what all this meant and what was passing in the mind of the other, each trying to avoid subjects which might hurt the other and conscious of the multitude of dangerous subjects. The supper gave them something more to do, but that, too, came to an end and Dick carried the little table out through the dining-room to the kitchen. Cecily tried to busy herself with something, unsettling things that she might settle them again. It was horrible, she told herself, that she should be so afraid of Dick’s presence. Why did he have that air of half-apology, of intrusion? He did not help her when he came back, but stood, looking curiously about the room. “Same place,” said Cecily, trying pathetically to be light. “Did you mind my coming?” “It was a dreadful evening until you came,” she answered. They were conscious that several hours lay before them. It was only half-past eight o’clock. And on both of them, afraid to begin to talk, hung those two hours for which they were so hungry and yet which were so oppressive. They sat down beside each other on the long davenport and talked of the children--anecdote after anecdote--but stories of them led to plans, and as plans began to be suggested in their minds they became wary again. Dick drew his wife’s head down against him finally, and for a long time they rested so. Odd, that the mere contact could give them such security. Farther and farther drifted their thoughts from discussion and analysis; back to memories of each other. * * * * * In the morning, while they were at breakfast with the children, the telephone rang. “It’s father,” said Cecily, returning from answering it, “wanting to wish me a Merry Christmas. He was so upset because he couldn’t get here for the tree last night. He’s coming to get us for dinner. We’re dining with him. Della and Walter are going out. Will you come too, Dick?” The last a little hesitantly for, after all, Dick had not declared his plans. “Did you tell him I was here?” countered Dick. She flushed. “I didn’t like to tell over the telephone.” Dick looked at her gravely. She realized as his eyes met hers that he looked older--and harder. “I’ll tell grandfather for a surprise,” said Dorothea complacently. They both winced. “We must talk things over this morning.” “But it’s Christmas day,” protested Cecily. He frowned that old familiar frown, the frown that always came when she had sought to lay down a rule as to when he should or should not do a thing. “Better right away.”