“Evening, everybody,” Hugh Benton spoke brusquely as he breezed into the room. His evening clothes indicated his intention of going out, as his wife’s indifference had long since caused him to discontinue dressing for dinner unless there were guests present. “Hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” he apologized. “I’m due at a—a little stag affair this evening, so I thought I would save time by dressing before dinner.” He crossed to the table and stood behind Marjorie’s chair, holding it for her, according to his mechanical custom of years. With a murmured “Thank you” she accepted the seat, and allowed him to move it forward. Elinor and Howard taking their accustomed places, held their breaths in suspense and eagerly waited for their father’s gaze to rest upon their mother. “Well, how’s everything?” Hugh asked cheerfully, as he unfolded his napkin. He seemed to be in remarkably fine spirits for some reason. “I noticed the car as I came in, Howard. It seems to be fine. You surprised me by obtaining one so quickly—trust you’ll make as rapid headway in business deals.” He picked up his spoon to attack the soup the butler placed before him. His mind seemed anywhere save on the things immediately before him, though his cheerfulness was exuberant. “Had a funny experience this morning, that I must tell you about,” he declared. He launched forth into a long, uninteresting business transaction lasting through the first three courses. By the time the roast reached the table, Elinor and Howard were fidgeting uncomfortably. Marjorie had begun to wilt like a faded flower; she had scarcely touched a morsel of food. Elinor, unable to stand the strain another moment, burst forth breathlessly: “Daddy, haven’t you noticed anything?” Marjorie’s protesting shake of her head was too late. “Noticed what?” asked her father curiously. His glance wandered about the room. “You’ve been talking so incessantly,” Elinor blurted forth like a spoiled child, “you haven’t noticed mother.” Hugh glanced across at Marjorie. “Why, you have your hair fixed differently, haven’t you, Marjorie?” he inquired, with careless indifference. “It is quite becoming.” He returned to his carving. A solemn and awful hush pervaded the atmosphere. Howard, with diplomacy worthy of an older man, came to the rescue, and broke the tension by beginning to discuss the political affairs of the day. Hugh Benton pushed his _mousse_ away from him impatiently. “No fripperies for me to-night, thank you,” he said. “I’m going to finish off with a cigar. No, son,” he added with uplifted hand to stay him as Howard started to rise to accompany him. “Stay and finish your dinner.” Howard subsided into his seat, as his father stalked out. In Marjorie Benton’s eyes two tears glittered that she tried to force back, but it was a tremulous laugh she gave as she remarked wryly: “Old hens don’t wear chicken plumage very successfully, do they, my dears?”