children. Because one
has composed a bundle of rhymes that no one will publish, he must needs
assume an attitude of forbearance with the man who supplies the bread
and butter! I've never been accustomed to regard failure as an instance
of superiority, but no doubt I am wrong--no doubt I am behind the
times--no doubt you are all condemning me in your minds as a blundering
old ignoramus! A father is nothing but a nuisance who must be tolerated
for the sake of what can be got out of him."

He looked round the table with his tired, angry eyes. Jack Martin sat
with bent head and lips pressed tightly together, repressing himself for
his wife's sake. Edith struggled against tears. Agnes served the salad
dressing and grunted approval. Margot, usually so pert and ready of
retort, stared at the cloth with a frown of strained distress. Only
Ronald faced him with steady eyes.

"That is not true, father, and you know it yourself!"

"I know nothing, it appears! That's just what I say. Why don't you
undertake my education? You never show me your work; you take the
advice of a child like Margot, and leave me out in the cold, and then
expect me to have faith enough to believe you a genius without a word of
proof. You want to become known to the public? Very well, bring down
some of that precious poetry and read it aloud to us now! You can't say
then that I haven't given you a chance!"

It was a frightful prospect! The criticism of the family is always an
ordeal to the budding author, and the moment was painfully unpropitious.
It would have been as easy for a bird to sing in the presence of the
fowler. Ronald turned white to the lips, but his reply came as
unwavering as the last.

"Do you think you would care to hear even the finest poetry in the world
read aloud to-night? Mine is very far from the best. I will read it to
you if you wish, but you must give me a happier opportunity."

Agnes laughed shortly.

"Shilly-shally! I can't understand what opportunity you want. If it's
good, it can't be spoilt by being read one day instead of another; if
it's bad, it won't be improved by waiting. This is cherry-pie, and
there is some tipsy cake. Edith, which will you have?"

Edith would have neither. She was still trembling with wounded
indignation against her father for that cruel hit at her husband. She
sat pale and silent, vowing never to enter the house again until Jack's
fortunes were restored; never to accep