He left the room. Muriel went to the dance in her father’s carriage. But Lois knew how clearly, in the light of the ensuing days, the victory was with her sister. Muriel kept aloof, frigid. She waged a perpetual _guerilla_ on her father. Soon he began to bribe and to cajole for a return to favor. He bought her an armlet she had several months ago expressed the wish for. He had said it was too expensive. “Out of the question.” He took her to theater with a strained gusto of good will and to supper after. He spoke to her with a nervous smile that exclaimed his suppliance. And Muriel accepted all, gave nothing. She wore his armlet and in no way acknowledged the life and feeling of the harried man who waited for thanks as for a reprieve. On his return each evening to his house, she managed some little way to hold him frozen in discomfort. On the occasion of another dance, he said: “Muriel, my dear--I just wanted to know--are you using the carriage to-night, or is your escort taking care of that? I just wanted to know, you see--because if so, I might use Henry myself. There’s a conference I----” “I have made no other arrangements.” “Oh, well, that is all right, my dear. I can get a cab. I--I just wanted to know, you see....” Having completely and ignominiously surrendered, he beamed at his daughter. Muriel smiled back. Here: Lois was ensconced in a deep armchair of bronzed leather. She was examining her little feet that lay in a rich Turkish rug. A knock at the door. “Come in,” said her father without looking up. A young man, the symbol of subservience, stepped in. He placed a group of papers before Mr. Deane, who did not look at him. He stepped back, threw up his head and waited. Mr. Deane raced through the papers. He marked annotations. He grunted. “You’ll have to see Mr. McGill about this”: the young man agilely stepped forward to ascertain which paper it was, and agilely subsided. “All right. Let Mr. Marton attend to the tax.” He returned the papers to the young man, for the first time saw him. “Here,” he smiled. “Why don’t you two greet each other?” Duer Tibbetts moved jerkily forward and took his cousin’s hand. But the bondage of the room’s authority was strong on him. He seemed weighed down by this sense of special dispensation. Social talk was impossible in the august presence. He was soon gone. Another five minutes of chat, another knock. This time a girl appeared with papers. The same subdued alertness, the same gingerly respect. Mr. Deane pressed a button. A boy bobbed in. “Take Miss Deane to her carriage.” The boy fell back as if to flatten himself into the wall, while she passed him. Her father got up. “Well, my dear. I am afraid I am too busy now”; in this splendid easy manner he dismissed her....