He had the effect of shutting his wife out of the conversation; of definitely snubbing and discountenancing her.  Kate knew it had always been like that, though when she had been young and more passionately determined to believe her home the best and dearest in the world, as children will, she had overlooked the fact—­had pretended that what was a habit was only a mood, and that if “father was cross” to-day, he would be pleasant to-morrow.  Now he began questioning Kate about college, her instructors and her friends.  There was conversation enough, but the man’s wife sat silent, and she knew that Kate knew that he expected her to do so.

Custard was brought on and Mrs. Barrington diffidently served it.  Her husband gave one glance at it.

“Curdled!” he said succinctly, pushing his plate from him.  “It’s a pity it couldn’t have been right Kate’s first night home.”

Kate thought there had been so much that was not right her first night home, that a spoiled confection was hardly worth comment.

“I’m dreadfully sorry,” Mrs. Barrington said.  “I suppose I should have made it myself, but I went down to the train—­”

“That didn’t take all the afternoon, did it?” the doctor asked.

“I was doing things around the house—­”

“Putting flowers in my room, I know, mummy,” broke in Kate, “and polishing up the silver toilet bottles, the beauties.  You’re one of those women who pet a home, and it shows, I can tell you.  You don’t see many homes like this, do you, dad,—­so ladylike and brier-rosy?”

She leaned smilingly across the table as she addressed her father, offering him not the ingratiating and seductive smile which he was accustomed to see women—­his wife among the rest—­employ when they wished to placate him.  Kate’s was the bright smile of a comradely fellow creature who asked him to play a straight game.  It made him take fresh stock of his girl.  He noted her high oval brow around which the dark hair clustered engagingly; her flexible, rather large mouth, with lips well but not seductively arched, and her clear skin with its uniform tinting.  Such beauty as she had, and it was far from negligible, would endure.  She was quite five feet ten inches, he estimated, with a good chest development and capable shoulders.  Her gestures were free and suggestive of strength, and her long body had the grace of flexibility and perfect unconsciousness.  All of this was good; but what of the spirit that looked out of her eyes?  It was a glance to which the man was not accustomed—­feminine yet unafraid, beautiful but not related to sex.  The physician was not able to analyze it, though where women were concerned he was a merciless analyst.  Gratified, yet unaccountably disturbed, he turned to his wife.

“Martha has forgotten to light up the parlor,” he said testily.  “Can’t you impress on her that she’s to have the room ready for us when we’ve finished inhere?”