There was a step in the hall. Josiah brushed into the room. He wore a wide-brimmed, black, slouch hat--such a hat as the owner of a Western mine, born in Long Island, is likely to deem appropriate. “Good evening, my dears,” he said. And then, he met the sharp gaze of Rhoda. “Can’t you remember the hat-rack, downstairs?” she reprimanded him. Josiah swept the hat from his head, with a big, red hand. His hair was streaked with grey. But still, his face had retained freshness and vitality despite its bulk and the ponderous chin that sagged over the low collar. Josiah was fifty-eight. He winced slightly at his daughter’s just remark. And then, he espied Quincy, still ensconced in his big chair. In the boy, was an outlet for his irritation caused by the episode of the hat. To display it toward Rhoda was unthought of. “Here,” he pointed with his hand toward Quincy, “bring my hat downstairs.” And then, having thrown out his remark, as to a lackey, he turned toward Marsden. “Well, my boy--and what sort of a day did you have?” A general conversation sprang up. Quincy stepped up to the table where his father had flung his slouch and went on his errand. He did not mind the errand. But his father’s tone fitted too painfully well within his growing mood. It was out of a sense of pride that he returned to the room, the hat deposited. Every instinct in his body drove him to go upstairs to his own floor,--every instinct save this new one that led him back into the overbearing presence. As he resumed his seat, Josiah asked: “Where’s your Ma?” Marsden thought he knew: “She’s shopping with the machine.” “She is not!” replied Josiah, emphatic through his own importance, rather than by virtue of the subject. “I had the car. Farrel said she’d dismissed him at four o’clock until the time to call for me.” “Well, then I don’t know.” Marsden raised his brow to show that also he did not care. Josiah stood pondering. “That’s funny,” he said. And once more, he espied Quincy, unobtrusively lost in his great chair. The thought of not knowing his wife’s whereabouts distressed him; again, out of his need of knowing everything, rather than by virtue of any warm solicitude. He felt strongly ill-at-ease, there in his own room, before his children, who paid no attention to him. He had already been reprimanded by his daughter. And now, it seemed that he was generally misinformed. Sarah’s absence was of no significance. It was not late. But the smug posture of his children, seated, while he stood--first scolded, then found ignorant--heightened his sense of umbrage. It had been a close, busy day. And his head had ached. Moreover, there was Quincy, snug in his chair--on his face a look of supreme unconcern. “Quincy,” he called out in a voice unnecessarily loud, “suppose you go down and asked Farrel where your Ma is. I think he’s waitin’.”