“That's all right enough,” she replied; “the question is--is Morice coming with me? Is that khaki he has on or a Kate Greenaway suit?” Morice looked from one to the other in obvious dismay. He had a pleasant dull face and a minute spiked mustache on an irresolute mouth. “If you stay with me,” she warned him further, “I'll have you out of that grocery store and into a trench.” “Pleasant for you, Morice,” Louise explained. “Things were so comfortable, Rosalie,” he protested despairingly. “What in the name of sense made you stir this all up? The governor won't do a tap for us now.” His wife stood by herself, facing the inimical Turnbull front, while Morice wavered between. “If you'll get along,” the former told him, “I can make a living till you come back. We can do without any Trübner money. I'm not a lot at German, but I guess you can understand me,” she again addressed August. “Not that I blame you for the change, such as it is.” “I'll have to go with her,” Morice unhappily declared. August Turnbull's face was stiff with congestion. The figures before him wavered in a sort of fog. He put out a hand, supporting himself on the back of his chair. “Get out of my house,” he repeated in a hoarse whisper. Fortunately Morice's leave had come to an end, and Rosalie and he withdrew in at least the semblance of a normal departure. August's rage changed to an indignant surprise, and he established himself with a rigid dignity on the veranda. There, happening on a cigar that burned badly, he was reduced to a state of further self-commiseration. That is, he dwelt on the general deterioration of the world about him. There was no discipline; there was no respect; authority was laughed at. All this was the result of laxness, of the sentimentality he condemned; a firmer hand was needed everywhere. He turned with relief to the contemplation of Meta Beggs; she was enormously satisfactory to consider. August watched her now with the greatest interest; he even sat in his wife's room while her companion moved silently and gracefully about. Miss Beggs couldn't have noticed this, for scarcely ever did her gaze meet his; she had a habit of standing lost in thought, her slimness a little drooping, as if she were weary or depressed. She was in his mind continually--Miss Beggs and Emmy, his wife.