father represented as a sort of comic-paper old man, you poor
dear,"--and she laid her long, gloved hand on his knee,--"who have always
been so conspicuously dignified."

"If I have," said her father, "I don't know that anything she says can
change it."

"No, of course; only it was horrible to me to hear her describing you in
the grip of a boyish passion. But don't let's talk of it. I hear," she
said, as if she were changing the subject, "that you have taken to going
to the Metropolitan Museum at odd moments."

He felt utterly stripped, and said without hope:

"Yes; I'm a trustee, you know."

Adelaide just glanced at him.

"You always have been, I think." They drove home in silence.

One reason why she was determined to have her father come home was that
it was the first time that Vincent was to take luncheon downstairs, and
when Adelaide had a part to play she liked to have an audience. She was
even glad to find Wayne in the drawing-room, though she did wonder to
herself if the little creature had entirely given up earning his living.
It was a very different occasion from Pete's last luncheon there; every
one was as pleasant as possible. As soon as the meal was over, Adelaide
put her hand on her husband's shoulder.

"You're going to lie down at once, Vin."

He rose obediently, but Wayne interposed. It seemed to him that it would
be possible to tell his story to Farron.

"Oh, can't Mr. Farron stay a few minutes?" he said. "I want so much to
speak to you and him together about--"

Adelaide cut him short.

"No, he can't. It's more important that he should get strong than
anything else is. You can talk to me all you like when I come down.
Come, Vin."

When they were up-stairs, and she was tucking him up on his sofa, he
asked gently:

"What did that boy want?"

Adelaide made a little face.

"Nothing of any importance," she said.

Things had indeed changed between them if he would accept such an answer
as that. She thought his indifference like the studied oblivion of the
debtor who says, "Don't I owe you something?" and is content with the
most non-committal reply. He lay back and smiled at her. His expression
was not easy to read.

She went down-stairs, where conversation had not prospered. Mr. Lanley
was smoking, with his cigar drooping from a corner of his mouth. He felt
very unhappy. Mathilde was frightened. Wayne had recast his opening
sentence a dozen times. He kept saying to himself that he wa