For the background of familiar things framed her so naturally and so convincingly and seemed so obviously devised for her in this mellow old household, where everything had its particular place in an orderly ensemble, that when she actually departed for college, the routine became dislocated, jarring everything above and below stairs, and leaving two dismayed and extremely restless men. "Steve’s going off like this has put the whole house on the blink," protested Jim, intensely surprised to discover the fact. It nearly finished Janet, whose voice, long afflicted with the cracked tremolo of age, now became almost incoherent at the very mention of Stephanie’s name. Old Lizzie, the laundress, deeply disapproving of Stephanie’s departure, insisted on doing her linen and sheer fabrics, and sending a hamper once a week to Poughkeepsie. Every week, also, Amanda, the cook, dispatched cardboard boxes Vassarward, containing condiments and culinary creations which she stubbornly refused to allow Cleland Senior to censor. "Ay t’ank a leetle yelly-cake and a leetle yar of yam it will not hurt Miss Stephanie," she explained to Cleland. And he said no more. As for Meacham, he prowled noiselessly about his duties, little, shrunken, round-shouldered, as though no dislocation in the family circle had occurred; but every day since her departure, at Stephanie’s place a fresh flower of some sort lay on the cloth to match the other blossom opposite. In the library together, after dinner, father and son discussed the void which her absence had created. "She’ll get enough of it and come back," suggested Jim, but without conviction. "It’s beastly not having her about." "Perhaps you have a faint idea how it was for me when you were away," observed his father. "I know. I _had_ to go through, hadn’t I?" "Of course.... But—with your mother gone—it was—lonely. Do you understand, now, why I took Steve when I had the chance?" The young fellow nodded, looking at his father: "Of course I understand. But I don’t see why Steve had to go. She has everything here to amuse her—everything a girl could desire! Why the deuce should she get restless and go flying about after knowledge?" "Possibly," said John Cleland, "the child has a mind." "A feminine one. Yes, of course. I tell you, Father, it’s all part and parcel of this world-wide restlessness which has set women fidgeting the whole world over. What is it they want?—because they themselves can’t tell you. Do you know?" "I think I do. They desire to exercise the liberty of choice." "They have it now, haven’t they?" "Virtually. They’re getting the rest. If Steve goes through college she will emerge to find all paths open to women. It worries me a little." Jim shrugged: "What is it she calls it—I mean her attitude about choosing a career?" "She refers to it, I believe, as ’the necessity for self-expression.’" "Fiddle! The trouble with Steve is that she’s afflicted with extreme youth."