"Do you call half-past six o'clock soon?" asked Mrs. Whitney following him into the room. "Winslow, Winslow, I warn you not to become too absorbed in your work." Whitney laughed somewhat ruefully. "Does the kettle call the pot black? What do you do but give up your time to the Sisters in Unity? I'm a secondary consideration. There, there," noting his wife's expression. "Don't let us dispute over trifles. I'm making headway, Minna--headway." "I congratulate you, dear." Mrs. Whitney laid a caressing hand on his touseled gray hair. "I never doubted that you would. But, Winslow, such complete absorption in your work is not healthy. The doctor has warned you not to shut yourself up in this room for hours, and particularly that you are not to lock your door on the inside. Remember your recent attacks of vertigo." "McLane's an ass. The vertigo sprang from indigestion; hereafter, I'll be more careful what I eat," he protested. "There's nothing the matter with this room; it's well ventilated and heated. And I will lock my door--I won't be interrupted by any jackass servant wanting to feed me pap"--pointing scornfully toward the hall where a tray laden with a teapot and tempting dishes stood on a table near the door. "Do you not yet realize, Minna, that this is my life work?" With a sweeping gesture he indicated the models, brass, wood, and wax, which filled every cranny of the sparsely furnished room. Mrs. Whitney sighed. The room was her bugbear. She had dignified it with the name of "studio," but it looked what it was--a workshop. Winslow Whitney, considered in clubdom as a dilettante and known to scientists as an inventor of ability, frowned impatiently as he observed his wife's air of disapprobation. "My dear, we must agree to disagree," he said, lowering his voice. "My brain is carrying too much just now; I cannot be confused by side issues. Everything must wait until my invention is completed." "Is your daughter's welfare of secondary importance?" "What?" Whitney surveyed his wife in startled surprise, and her handsome face flushed under his scrutiny. "What is the matter with Kathleen's welfare? Do I illtreat her? Is she refused money? Do I make her spend hours here helping me in this"--sarcastically--"sweatshop? Four years ago she took up this fad of painting; you encouraged her at it--you know you did," shaking an accusing finger at his wife. "You persuaded me to let her study in Germany, and she hasn't been worth a button since--as far as home comfort goes." "Winslow!" "It's true," doggedly. "Formerly she was willing and glad to help me with my modeling, help me in making calculations, tracings--now she spends her time philandering." "All young girls flirt, Winslow." "But Kathleen was always so shy," Whitney shook his head. "Now I'm asked at the club if she isn't engaged to this man and that." "Will you never realize that Kathleen is exceptionally pretty, with the gift of fascination?"