"Very well, father, come in, please." Her voice sounded tired and lifeless. He opened the door and found the room dark. "I'm over on the bed," she said. "I've had a headache this evening." He came over to the bedside and he could just see her there, a long shadow upon the white. She had not taken off her clothes. He stood a moment helplessly. "Please don't _you_ talk to me!" His daughter fiercely whispered. "I can't stand any more to-night!" "I won't," he answered. "It's too late." Again there was a pause. "What time is it?" she asked him. But he did not answer. "Well, Laura," he said presently, "your sister has told me everything. She has seen your husband--it's all arranged--and you're to stay here till it's over ... You want to stay here, don't you?" "Yes." "Then it's settled," he went on. "There's only one thing--the other man. I don't know who he is and I don't want to know. And I don't want you to know him again. You're not to see him. Understand?" For a moment Laura was silent. "I'm going to marry him, father," she said. And standing in the darkened room Roger stiffened sharply. "Well," he answered, after a pause, "that's your affair. You're no longer a child. I wish you were," he added. Suddenly in the darkness Laura's hand came out clutching for his. But he had already turned to the door. "Good-night," he said, and left her. In the hallway below he met Deborah, and to her questioning look he replied, "All right, I guess. Now I'm going to bed." He went into his room and closed the door. As soon as Roger was alone, he knew this was the hardest part--to be here by himself in this intimate room, with this worn blue rug, these pictures and this old mahogany bed. For he had promised Judith his wife to keep close to the children. What would she think of him if she knew? Judith had been a broad-minded woman, sensible, big-hearted. But she never would have stood for this. Once, he recollected, she had helped a girl friend to divorce her husband, a drunkard who ran after chorus girls. But that had been quite different. There the wife had been innocent and had done it for her children. Laura was guilty, she hadn't a child, she was already planning to marry again. And then what, he asked himself. "From bad to worse, very likely. A woman can't stop when she's started downhill." His eye was caught by the picture directly before him on the wall--the one his wife had given him--two herdsmen with their cattle high up on a shoulder of a sweeping mountain side, tiny blue figures against the dawn. It had been like a symbol of their lives, always beginning clean glorious days. What was Laura beginning?