ast with her two eldest children. He had been able to
count on this because the Whitneys had a certain pride in preserving
some of the customs of the generation before them; at least Martin had,
and Frederica's good-natured, rueful acquiescence gave her at once
something to laugh at him a little about and a handy leverage for the
extraction of miscellaneous concessions. It wasn't exactly a misdemeanor
to be late to breakfast--it began promptly at eight o'clock--but it was
distinctly meritorious not to be. Martin never was and he always left
the house for his office at exactly eight-twenty. His chauffeur was
trained to take just ten minutes trundling the big car down-town, and
eight-thirty found him at his desk as invariably as it had found his
father before him. It was all perfectly ritualistic, of course. There
wasn't the slightest need for any of it.

A knowledge of the ritual, though, stood Rodney in good stead this
morning. He liked Martin well enough--had really a traditional and
vicarious affection for him. But he was about the last man he wanted to
see to-day.

The children were a boy of ten, Martin, junior, and a girl, Ellen, of
eight. There was a three-year-old baby, too, but his nurse looked after
him. They had finished breakfast, but Frederica had a way of keeping
them at the table for a little while every morning, chatting with
her--oh, about anything they pleased. If it was a design for their
improvement, they didn't suspect it. The talk broke off short when the
three of them, almost simultaneously, looked up and saw Rodney in the
doorway.

"Hello!" Frederica said, holding out a hand to him, but not rising.
"Just in time for breakfast."

"Don't ring," he said quickly. "I've had all I want. My train got in an
hour ago and I had a try at the station restaurant."

"Well, sit down anyway," said Frederica.

"Take this chair, Uncle Rod," said the boy in a voice of brusk
indifference. "Excuse me, mother?" He barely waited for her nod and
blundered out of the room.

The girl came round to Rodney's chair to offer him her hand and drop her
curtsy; took a carnation from a bowl on the table and tucked it into his
button-hole, slid her arm around his neck and kissed his cheek.

Both the children, Frederica was aware, had remarked something troubled
and serious about their uncle's manner and each had acted on this
observation in his own way. The boy, distressed and only afraid of
showing it, had bolted from the