Quincy jumped up again. Fatally, he caught the spirit behind his father’s words and his father’s tone. Unmistakably, he knew that he was being used, that moment, as a release for his father’s mood, for his father’s aches and for his father’s uncomfortable, silly sense of humiliation. All this hurt--this seeing clear. But none the less, he moved stiffly to the door in order to comply. His legs moved laggardly. Something within him repelled this motion of obedience. It was not fair to be exploited as a release for an old man’s aches and tempers and sense of limitation! And in addition, he felt the cold eyes of the company upon him, indifferently watching him on his way, ignorant of his misery, careless of its cause. But now, he was at the door. He opened it. And then, the impulse that said “Nay!” moved something in him, something perverse, ineffectual, foolish, so that he spoke. He knew the folly of this compromise between his sense of duty and of justice. But it was too late. The words came:-- “Suppose the chauffeur doesn’t know?” For the moment, there was a pause. Marsden, Jonas and Rhoda turned in gleeful expectation toward their glowering father. They knew the outburst such inanity must occasion. And Adelaide, who alone felt fear and pain in this lull of fever, broke into a nervous giggle which Quincy totally misunderstood. Josiah’s face was scarlet. He had need of just this outburst for a bath of temper wherein to wash away the day’s accumulated irritations. “Suppose the chauffeur doesn’t know, eh?” he half-sneered, half-shouted. “Then--find out!” The door shut behind the boy.... The shower of temper had had the wished-for result. At once, Josiah was in an excellent mood. He dropped into the chair that had held Quincy, spread himself amply and began to talk--convivially, cleverly, cheerfully, as was his way when he desired to overcome an earlier impression. The others joined him, now, with truer participation. And so, half an hour sped. Then once more, there was a step in the hall. The door opened, and Sarah entered. She wore furs, despite the season. A bewildering creation of flowers and feathers, rimmed in black velvet, sat square upon her head. As she stepped in, Josiah jumped with unwonted speed from his comfortable place. This, in itself, was enough to cause Sarah to stand still and look. “Adelaide,” said Josiah, without greeting his wife, “go upstairs and see if Quincy’s in his room.” He spoke nervously, quickly, sweetly withal. Rhoda and Jonas rose, seeking his eyes, impelled also by a sudden thought. Even Marsden smiled uncomfortably. Adelaide flew out, on her mission. And Sarah, flinging her furs aside, stepped forward, as if to ease some necessary action. The ominous, knowing concert of all these eyes brought panic to her ignorance. “Josiah!” she began. “Where’s Quincy--? What--” “Shut up!” cut in her husband. “Don’t get excited!” “What have you--” Sarah’s heart had read the uncommon fear on her husband’s face.