This was not, of course, strictly true. Leila always referred to Thomas as Freddy; she found a mischievous delight in doing so before her father. Since she became aware of her father’s increasing displeasure at Thomas’s attentions and knew that the young man’s visits at the house were a source of irritation, she had been meeting Thomas at the homes of one or another of her friends whose discretion could be relied on, or at the public library or the Art Institute--it was a joke that Leila should have availed herself of these institutions for any purpose! Constance in giving her an admonitory prod under the table inadvertently brushed her father-in-law’s shin. “I meant Mr. Frederick Thomas, Dada,” Leila replied, her gentle tone in itself a species of impudence. “I hope you are about done with that fellow,” said Mills, frowning. “Sure, Dada, I’m about through with him,” she replied with intentional equivocation. “I should think you would be! I don’t like the idea of your name being associated with his!” “Well, it isn’t, is it?” Mills disliked being talked back to. His annoyance was increased by the fact that he had been unable to learn anything detrimental to Thomas beyond the fact that the man had been divorced. The decree of divorce, he had learned in Chicago, was granted to Thomas though his wife had brought the suit. While not rich, Thomas was well-to-do, and when it came to the question of age, Arthur Carroll was a trifle older. But Leila should marry Carroll. Carroll was ideally qualified to enter the family by reason of his familiarity with its history and traditional conservatism. He knew and respected the Franklin Mills habit of mind, and this in itself was an asset. Mills had no intention of being thwarted in his purpose to possess Carroll as a son-in-law.... Gloom settled over the table. Mills, deeply preoccupied, ate his dessert in silence. Leila presented a much more serious and pressing problem than foreign missions. Constance strove vainly to dispel the cloud. Leila alone seemed untroubled; she repeated a story that Bud Henderson had told her which was hardly an appropriate addendum for a missionary sermon. Her father rebuked her sternly. If there was anything that roused his ire it was a risqué story. “One might think,” he said severely, “that you were brought up in a slum from the way you talk. The heathen are not all in China!” “Well, it is a funny story,” Leila persisted. “I told it to Doctor Harden and he almost died laffin’. Doc certainly knows a joke. You’re not angry--not really, terribly angry at your ’ittle baby girl, is ’ou, Dada?” “I most certainly am!” he retorted grimly. A moment later he added: “Well, let’s go to Deer Trail for supper. Connie, you and Shep are free for the evening, I hope?” “We’ll be glad to go, of course,” Constance replied amiably. IV