had come to Mercer on business, bringing
Edith with him, as a sort of spree for the child; and when he got home
he summed up his experience to his Mary:

"That daughter of yours will be the death of me! There was one moment at
dinner when only the grace of God kept me from wringing her neck. In the
first place, she commented upon the food--which was awful!--with her
usual appalling candor. But when she began on the 'harp'--"

"Harp?" Mary Houghton looked puzzled.

"I won't go to their house again! I detest married people who squabble
in public. Let 'em scratch each other's eyes out in private if they want
to, the way we do! But I'll be hanged if I look on. She calls him
'darling' whenever she speaks to him. She adores him,--poor fellow! I
tell you, Mary, a mind that hasn't a single thought except love must be
damned stupid to live with. I wished I was asleep a dozen times."

Maurice, too, at his own dinner table, had "wished he was asleep."

In the expectation of seeing Mr. Houghton, Eleanor had planned an early
and extra good dinner, after which they meant to take their guests out
on the river and float down into the country to a spot--green, still, in
the soft October days--from which they could look back at the city, with
its myriad lights pricking out in the dusk, and see the copper lantern
of the full moon lifting above the black line of the hills. Eleanor,
taught by Maurice, had learned to feel the strange loveliness of
Mercer's ugliness, and it was her idea that Mr. Houghton should feel it,
too. "Edith's too much of a child to appreciate it," she said.

"She's not much of a child; she's almost fourteen!"

"I think," said Eleanor, "that if she's fourteen, she's too old to be as
free and easy with men--as she is with you."

"_Me?_ I'm just like a brother! She has no more sense of beauty than a
puppy, but she'll like the boat, provided she can row, and adore you."

"Nonsense!" Eleanor said. "Oh, I _hope_ the dinner will be good."

It was far from good; the deaf Hannah had scorched the soup, to which
Edith called attention, making no effort to emulate the manners of her
father, who heroically took the last drop in his plate. Maurice, anxious
that Eleanor's housekeeping should shine, thought the best way to affirm
it was to say that _this_ soup was vile, "but generally our soup is
fine!"

"Maurice thinks Edith is a wonderful cook," Eleanor said; her voice
trembled.

Something went wrong at dessert, and E