ack until March, and
that seems a long time to leave Harry and the house."

Henry had leisurely put his cigar into his mouth, had puffed
luxuriously, and had then continued to gaze at his paper without saying
anything.

Nancy hated this indifference, and she knew that Henry knew that she
hated it. It was like his whistling. At times, when for some reason or
other he wished to be disagreeable, he would start quietly whistling
behind his paper, apparently for his sole enjoyment. It was as if, in
view of the coldness of his audience, he were forced to express himself
in a humble and subdued manner, but express himself he must. The tunes
that he chose were The Rosary, The Miserere, Tosti's Good-bye, Gounod's
Ave Maria. There would be an occasional lapse into the jazz song of the
moment, and quite frequently a sacred number. The songs themselves
exasperated her, but what was unbearable were the trills and improvised
fireworks. She would leave the room thoroughly angry, and would fancy
that as she ascended the stairs the tune swelled slightly and acquired
even more airs and graces.

So now, as he deliberately smoked his cigar without noticing her, her
anger rose. He was so smug, so self-sufficient--she wanted to stick a
pin into him.

"It isn't, of course, as if the house were not in capable hands," she
went on, "for Katie and Julia are perfectly responsible, and Annie
couldn't be better." Henry put down his paper, blew a cloud of smoke,
and, looking blandly at her, twisted his mouth so that he might enjoy
the luxury of biting his cheek.

"Well?" burst out Nancy. "I don't see why you need be so irritating
about it?"

"Why, don't be foolish," he replied with an amused smile; "do just what
you want, of course." To Nancy, the smile spoke a great deal more. "How
fatuous you are," it said, "with your devotion to my son and to me. Let
a lollypop in the way of a trip to California come along, and away you
go as if you didn't have a responsibility in the world. There's a firm
nature for you."

She had fled to Mrs. Norris, as always in an emergency, and, receiving
reassuring words, she had gone, but not without tears and misgiving and
not without an unforgettable memory of Henry's behaviour.

She had frankly discussed her Henry Problem with Mrs. Robert
Lee-Satterlee. "I can't seem to reach any middle ground with him," she
had said. "Either I feel terribly because things go so wrong, so much
worse than when Mother was alive,