"Well, father, I learned this afternoon what you've been keeping from me," she said. Roger gave her a steady look. "You did, eh--Laura told you?" "Yes, she did!" his daughter exclaimed. "And I can't help wondering, father--" "Why did she tell you? Have you been at her again to-day?" "Again? Not at all," she answered. "I've done as you asked me to, let her alone. But to-day--mother's day--I got thinking of _her_." "Leave your mother out of it, please. What did you say to Laura?" "I tried to make her go back, of course--" "And she told you--" "He wouldn't have her! And then in a perfect tantrum she went on to tell me why!" Edith's eyes were cold with disgust. "And I'm wondering why you let her stay here--in the same house with my children!" Roger reached out his hand. "Give me that note," he commanded. He read it quickly and handed it back. The note was from Laura, a hasty good-bye. "Edith will explain," she wrote, "and you will see I cannot stay any longer. It is simply too impossible. I am going to the man I love--and in a few days we shall sail for Naples. I know you will not interfere. It will make the divorce even simpler and everything easier all round. Please don't worry about me. We shall soon be married over there. You have been so dear and sensible and I do so love you for it." Then came her name scrawled hastily. And at the bottom of the page: "I have paid every bill I can think of." Edith read it in silence, her color slowly mounting. "All right," said her father, "your children are safe." She gave him a quick angry look, burst into tears and ran out of the room. Roger sat without moving, his heavy face impassive. And so he remained for a long time. Well, _Laura_ was gone--no mistake about that--and this time she was gone for good. She was going to live in Rome. Try to stop her? No. What good would it do? Wings of the Eagles, Rome reborn. That was it, she had hit it, struck the keynote of this new age. Rome reborn, all clean, old-fashioned Christian living swept away by millions of men at each others' throats like so many wolves. And at last quite openly to himself Roger admitted that he felt old. Old and beaten, out of date. Moments passed, and hours--he took little note of time. Nor did he see on the mantle the dark visage of "The Thinker" there, resting on the huge clinched fist and brooding down upon him. Lower, imperceptibly, he sank into his leather chair. Quiet had returned to his house. CHAPTER XXXIV But the quiet was dark to Roger now. Each night he spent in his study alone, for instinctively he felt the need of being by himself for a while, of keeping away from his children--out of whose lives he divined that other events would soon come forth to use up the last of the strength that was in him.