They were at supper, their first meal together. And how different from what he had imagined! There was still daylight in the room, even a last gleam of sun striking across the table. It looked so charming and so peaceful that Mr. Petersen couldn’t help expecting some comment. Surely she would notice his linen and the fine old silver? Or at least Mrs. Hansen’s cooking? How could she not be delighted at finding such a home for herself and her child? He had proudly led her from room to room, each one so exquisitely clean and neat, furnished so well and substantially, and she hadn’t made a single remark about the comfort or the beauty of any of them. Just followed him and asked, idiotically, “And this is the sitting-room?” and so on. He was too even-tempered and too fond of Minnie to be angry, but he was deeply disappointed. Without showing it in any way. Quite in his usual way, he resumed: “Would you like to send out a few announcements? To your sister, perhaps?” She sprang to her feet to answer him. “No, no, no!” she cried, in an odd, hysterical voice. “What’s the matter with you? Can’t you let things be as they are? Can’t you let me alone? I hate that vulgar, nasty display. I won’t have it! I’ll deny it! I’ll deny it!” She stamped her foot and began to cry furiously, so that in the end he had to call in Mrs. Hansen, and between them they did their best to soothe her, and persuade her to go directly to bed, where a tray was brought her, so that she could finish her supper in peace. They arranged a good light, and found a cheerful book for her. Mr. Petersen lingered a minute after Mrs. Hansen had gone downstairs. He looked down at the worn and wretched Minnie. “My dear,” he said gently, “don’t worry, please--about anything. I don’t want you even to shake hands with me, if you don’t wish. I should be very glad if I could make you understand--that I am not that sort of man. I hope you will never have cause to regret----” “Chris,” she answered soberly, “I’m sorry, very sorry I’ve acted like this. But I’m overwrought, not myself. After all, it’s a terribly important step for a woman. Especially when there’s a child to be considered.” CHAPTER TWENTY “Well,” said Mr. Petersen to himself, “I’m not the first nor the last!” He was standing on the back porch, looking into the kitchen formerly Mrs. Hansen’s immaculate kingdom. How changed, how sadly altered now! As if a huge maddened bumblebee had been flying about in it, knocking down everything, making all sorts of stupid mischief. Dirty pots and pans on the stove, the sink, even, unaccountably, on the chairs. And extraordinary things, which interested him, on the floor, egg-shells, toys, a pair of gloves.