That evening when Shepherd Mills went home he found Constance seated at her dressing table, her heavy golden-brown hair piled loosely upon her head, while her maid rubbed cold cream into her throat and face. She espied him in the mirror and greeted him with a careless, “Hello, Shep. How did the day go with you?”--the question employed by countless American wives in saluting their husbands at the end of a toilsome day. “Oh, pretty good!” he replied. No husband ever admits that a day has been wholly easy and prosperous. She put out her hand for him to kiss and bade him sit down beside her. He was always diffident before the mysteries of his wife’s toilet. He glanced at the gown laid across a chair and surveyed the crystal and silver on the dressing table with a confused air as though he had never seen them before. The room denoted Constance Mills’s love of luxury, and incidentally her self-love. The walls on two sides were set in mirrors that reached from ceiling to floor. The furniture, the rugs, the few pictures, the window draperies had been chosen with an exquisite care and combined in an evocation of the spirit of indolence. There was a much be-pillowed divan across one corner, so placed that when she enjoyed a siesta Constance could contemplate herself in the mirrors opposite. Scents--a mingling of faint exotic odors--hung upon the air. She was quick to note that something was on Shepherd’s mind and half from curiosity, half in a spirit of kindness, dismissed the maid as quickly as possible. “You can hook me up, Shep. I’ll do my hair myself. I won’t need you any more, Marie. Yes--my blue cloak. Now, little boy, go ahead and tell me what’s bothering you.” Shepherd frowned and twisted his mustache as he sat huddled on the divan. “It’s about father; nothing new, just our old failure to understand each other. It’s getting worse. I never know where I stand with him.” “Well, does anyone?” Constance asked serenely. “You really mustn’t let him get on your nerves. There are things you’ve got to take because we all do; but by studying him a little and practicing a little patience you’ll escape a lot of worry.” “Yes,” he assented eagerly. “You know he just pretends that I’m the head of the plant; Fields is the real authority there. It’s not the president but the vice-president who has the say about things. Father consults Fields constantly. He doesn’t trust me--I’m just a figurehead.” “Fields is such an ass,” remarked Constance with a shrug of her shapely shoulders. “An utterly impossible person. Why not just let him do all the explaining to your father? If any mistakes are made at the plant, then it’s on him.” “But that’s not the way of it,” Shepherd protested plaintively. “He gets the praise; I get the blame.” “Oh, well, you can’t make your father over. You ought to be glad you’re not of his hard-boiled variety. You’re human, Sheppy, and that’s better than being a magnificent iceberg.”