Dr. Barrington raised his hand. "Never mind about a mother's love," he said decisively. "If you had seen it fail as often as I have, you'd think the less said on the subject the better. Women are mammal, I admit; maternal they are not, save in a proportion of cases. Did you have a pleasant journey down, Kate?" He had the effect of shutting his wife out of the conversation; of definitely snubbing and discountenancing her. Kate knew it had always been like that, though when she had been young and more passionately determined to believe her home the best and dearest in the world, as children will, she had overlooked the fact--had pretended that what was a habit was only a mood, and that if "father was cross" to-day, he would be pleasant to-morrow. Now he began questioning Kate about college, her instructors and her friends. There was conversation enough, but the man's wife sat silent, and she knew that Kate knew that he expected her to do so. Custard was brought on and Mrs. Barrington diffidently served it. Her husband gave one glance at it. "Curdled!" he said succinctly, pushing his plate from him. "It's a pity it couldn't have been right Kate's first night home." Kate thought there had been so much that was not right her first night home, that a spoiled confection was hardly worth comment. "I'm dreadfully sorry," Mrs. Barrington said. "I suppose I should have made it myself, but I went down to the train--" "That didn't take all the afternoon, did it?" the doctor asked. "I was doing things around the house--" "Putting flowers in my room, I know, mummy," broke in Kate, "and polishing up the silver toilet bottles, the beauties. You're one of those women who pet a home, and it shows, I can tell you. You don't see many homes like this, do you, dad,--so ladylike and brier-rosy?"