"Thanks." And again she left them. In silence, when the front door closed, Edith looked at her father. This must be rather serious, Roger thought excitedly. So Laura was to stay all night, while Deborah gallivanted off to those infernal schools of hers! He had little joy in his paper that night. The news of the world had such a trick of suddenly receding a million miles away from a man the minute he was in trouble. And Roger was in trouble. With each slow tick of the clock in the hall he grew more certain and more disturbed. An hour passed. The clock struck nine. With a snort he tossed his paper aside. "Well, Edith," he said glumly, "how about some chess this evening?" In answer she gave him a quick smile of understanding and sympathy. "All right, father dear." And she fetched the board. But they had played only a short time when Deborah's latchkey was heard in the door. Roger gave an angry hitch to his chair. Soon she appeared in the doorway. "May I talk to you, father?" she asked. "I suppose so." Roger scowled. "You'll excuse us, Edith?" she added. "Oh, assuredly, dear." And Edith rose, looking very much hurt. "Of course, if I'm not needed--" At this her father scowled again. Why couldn't Deborah show her sister a little consideration? "What is it?" he demanded. "Suppose we go into the study," she said. He followed her there and shut the door. * * * * * "Well?" he asked, from his big leather chair. Deborah had remained standing. "I've got some bad news," she began. "What is it?" he snapped. "School burnt down?" Savagely he bit off a cigar. "I've just had a talk with Harold," she told him. He shot a glance of surprise and dismay. "Have, eh--what's it all about?" "It's about a divorce," she answered. The lighted match dropped from Roger's hand. He snatched it up before it was out and lit his cigar, and puffing smoke in a vigilant way again he eyed his daughter. "I've done what I could," she said painfully, "but they seem to have made up their minds." "Then they'll unmake 'em," he replied, and he leaned forward heavily. "They'll unmake 'em," he repeated, in a thick unnatural tone. "I'm not a'goin' to hear to it!" In a curious manner his voice had changed. It sounded like that of a man in the mountains, where he had been born and raised. This thought flashed into Deborah's mind and her wide resolute mouth set hard. It would be very difficult. "I'm afraid this won't do, father dear. Whether you give your consent or not--" "Wun't, wun't it! You wait and see if it wun't!" Deborah came close to him. "Suppose you wait till you understand," she admonished sternly. "All right, I'm waiting," he replied. She felt herself trembling deep inside. She did not want him to understand, any more than she must to induce him to keep out of this affair.