She went downstairs and into the dining-room, feeling lost in the glow of the orange-colored flame that sputtered above the table. There was cream tomato soup, already served, a thick purplish-pink, curdling a little in the sweated plates. "Hello, Alice." "Good evening, Alice." Mr. Farley was drinking his soup timidly, and without enjoyment. Surreptitiously, his blunt fingers crumbled atoms of a crust. He did not look at his wife, but his eyes searched the faces of his children warily. "Have your beef rare, Laurence?" Mrs. Farley asked. "Yes," Laurence said casually. His mother always served him first. He stretched his legs under the table. He sat heavily in his chair as if he had fallen there. He took big gulps of soup and tilted his dish. Then he began to wipe butter from his knife on a ragged piece of half-chewed bread. There was a kind of satisfaction of disgust in all he did. "I hear Ridge is dangerously ill, Alice." His eyes were hard with curiosity, as he glanced at her, but not unsympathetic. "Well?" Alice gave him a combative stare. "If you're threatening to express any satisfaction about it, please keep your mouth shut." "I was never down on Ridge personally. He has written some fool books, but I am every sorry to hear that he is sick." "I'd better write to him and give him your sympathy." "No need to be sarcastic, Alice," Laurence said. Mr. Farley coughed. "In spite of the impracticability of his views, I'm sure none of us wish Ridge out of the way." Alice frayed the edges of her slice of beef by futile jabs with her fork, but she could not make up her mind to eat. Suddenly these people became intolerable to her. She rose without a word, and walked out of the room. They stared at her disappearing back. "What's the matter, Alice?" Laurence called. He got up, glancing at his mother. "Shall I go after her?" Mrs. Farley had so hardened, in her determination to keep silence, that it was difficult for her to speak of commonplace matters. "Leave her alone," she said in a grating voice. Laurence shrugged and sat down again. "She probably feels that we are not sympathetic in regard to Mr. Ridge," Mr. Farley said. He smiled painfully and apologetically. "No, I don't think we are," said Laurence comfortably. Mrs. Farley had shut herself up again. Alice went out through the kitchen and stood in the back yard. It was foggy close to the earth. The street lamps beyond the high back wall diffused their brightness in the thickness of the night so that the darkness seemed atingle with a whitish blush. The light from the open door behind her streamed out and cut the darkness with a wedge-shaped blade. Where it fell, the grass was purple-blue milk, rich and thick with color.