"I’ll keep up the fire, sir, it’s a bit sharp out to-night," answered Jennings, apologetically. Thurston continued to pace the floor, while Jennings piled fresh logs on the fire, shaking his head and muttering, as he was sometimes in the habit of doing. Suddenly there was an imperative knock upon the front door. "Ah, here she is, now, sir!" exclaimed Jennings, struggling to his feet. "Here’s her little leddyship." He hurried from the room, chuckling with delight. Thurston’s eyes were illumined with a sudden flash of joy and he rushed to the door to meet his wife. But the movement was an involuntary one. On second thought he sat down to the table, took up a book and endeavored to appear disinterested. "Why," he thought, remembering anew the facts of her absence, "should he act as though she had done nothing wrong. That in itself would be a condonation of her offence." He turned his head slowly, as Jennings came back to the room, followed hurriedly by Stillwater, holding his overcoat and opera hat. Thurston rose, his expression of cold and assumed indifference changing to one of deep disappointment and anger. "Where’s my wife—where is she?" he demanded, with an uncontrollable burst of passion. "She’s all right, my boy, she’s all right," answered Stillwater, in a conciliating tone, beneath which there was a trace of embarrassment. "She’s at the hotel, with mother and Grandma Chazy. And I came to bring you back to finish up the evening with us." "Thank you, very much," said Thurston, sinking into his chair. "Now, you’re mad. You won’t be so foolish as to make a fuss about nothing." Thurston looked at him, in incomprehending surprise. "Mr. Stillwater, do you know that my wife left the house against my express wish and command? Drove away from my door on Sunday evening with a gentleman not her husband." "Yes, I know all about it, my boy," answered Stillwater. "But it was only Glen—just the same as her own brother." "My household does not know that. The appearance of such a proceeding is not favorable." "I know—but it’s Indiana’s way of doing things," said Stillwater, rather impatiently. "Just because you said she shouldn’t, she would. Now, if you handled her a little better—you’ll excuse me, but I’ve known her longer than you—" "You may have known her longer, but I doubt if you understand her better. As to handling her, as you call it, I will never stoop to bribe or cajole her into doing her duty." "That’s all right," continued Stillwater. He was there on an errand of conciliation, and, though his son-in-law’s argument seemed absurdly precise and conventional, and he assured himself that he did not approve of any such cut-and-dried policy, he was determined to carry out his intention. "I approve of the stand you are taking, but commence after we’re gone. It seems rather mean to spoil mother’s holiday, doesn’t it? Now come along, and Indy will receive you with open arms. It’ll be all right, I promise you."