Mrs. Warham felt miserable about it also. "Susie took me by surprise," she apologized. Then, defiantly, "And what else can I do? You know he doesn't come for any good." Warham stared in amazement. "Now, what does _that_ mean?" he demanded. "You know very well what it means," retorted his wife. Her tone made him understand. He reddened, and with too blustering anger brought his fist down on the table. "Susan's our daughter. She's Ruth's sister." Ruth pushed back her chair and stood up. Her expression made her look much older than she was. "I wish you could induce the rest of the town to think that, papa," said she. "It'd make my position less painful." And she, too, left the room. "What's she talking about?" asked Warham. "It's true, George," replied Fanny with trembling lip. "It's all my fault--insisting on keeping her. I might have known!" "I think you and Ruth must be crazy. I've seen no sign." "Have you seen any of the boys calling on Susan since she shot up from a child to a girl? Haven't you noticed she isn't invited any more except when it can't be avoided?" Warham's face was fiery with rage. He looked helplessly, furiously about. But he said nothing. To fight public sentiment would be like trying to thrust back with one's fists an oncreeping fog. Finally he cried, "It's too outrageous to talk about." "If I only knew what to do!" moaned Fanny. A long silence, while Warham was grasping the fullness of the meaning, the frightful meaning, in these revelations so astounding to him. At last he said: "Does _she_ realize?" "I guess so . . . I don't know . . . I don't believe she does. She's the most innocent child that ever grew up." "If I had a chance, I'd sell out and move away." "Where?" said his wife. "Where would people accept--her?" Warham became suddenly angry again. "I don't believe it!" he cried, his look and tone contradicting his words. "You've been making a mountain out of a molehill." And he strode from the room, flung on his hat and went for a walk. As Mrs. Warham came from the dining-room a few minutes later, Ruth appeared in the side veranda doorway. "I think I'll telephone Arthur to come tomorrow evening instead," said she. "He'd not like it, with Sam here too." "That would be better," assented her mother. "Yes, I'd telephone him if I were you." Thus it came about that Susan, descending the stairs to the library to get a book, heard Ruth say into the telephone in her sweetest voice, "Yes--tomorrow evening, Arthur. Some others are coming--the Wrights. You'd have to talk to Lottie . . . I don't blame you. . . . Tomorrow evening, then. So sorry. Good-by."