There came an interruption.  One night when Deborah was out and Roger sat in his study alone, the maid came in highly flustered and said,

“Mr. Gale!  It’s Miss Laura to see you!”

He turned with a startled jerk of his head and his face slowly reddened.  But when he saw the maid’s eager expression and saw that she was expecting a scene, with a frown of displeasure he rose from his chair.

“Very well,” he said, and he went to his daughter.  He found her in the living room.  No repentant Magdalene, but quite unabashed and at her ease, she came to her father quickly.

“Oh, dad, I’m so glad to see you, dear!” And she gave him a swift impetuous kiss, her rich lips for an instant pressing warmly to his cheek.

“Laura!” he said thickly.  “Come into my study, will you?  I’m alone this evening.”

“I’m so glad you are!” she replied.  She followed him in and he closed the door.  He glanced at her confusedly.  In her warmth, her elegance, an indefinable change in the tone and accent of her high magnetic voice, and in her ardent smiling eyes, she seemed to him more the foreigner now.  And Roger’s thoughts were in a whirl.  What had happened?  Had she married again?

“Is Edith here still?” she was asking.

“No, she’s up in the mountains.  She’s living there,” he answered.

“Edith?  In the mountains?” demanded Laura, in surprise.  And she asked innumerable questions.  He replied to each one of them carefully, slowly, meanwhile getting control of himself.

“And Deborah married—­married at last!  How has it worked?  Is she happy, dad?”

“Very,” he said.

“And is she still keeping up her schools?”

“Yes, for the present.  She’ll have to stop soon.”  Laura leaned forward, curious: 

“Tell me, dad—­a baby?”

“Yes.”  She stared a moment.

“Deborah!” she softly exclaimed; and in a moment, “I wonder.”

“What do you mean?” her father asked, but Laura evaded his question.  She plied him with her inquiries for a few minutes longer, then turned to him with a challenging smile: 

“Well, father, don’t you think you had better ask me now about myself?” He looked away a moment, but turned resolutely back: 

“I suppose so.  When did you land?”

“This morning, dear, from Italy—­with my husband,” she replied.  And Roger started slightly.  “I want you to meet him soon,” she said.

“Very well,” he answered.  At his disturbed, almost guilty expression Laura laughed a little and rose and came over and hugged him tight.

“Oh, but, father dearest—­it’s working out so splendidly!  I want you to know him and see for yourself!  We’ve come to live in New York for a while—­he has more to do here about war supplies.”

“More shrapnel, eh, machine guns.  More wholesale death,” her father growled.  But Laura smiled good-naturedly.

“Yes, love, from America.  Aren’t you all ashamed of yourselves—­scrambling so, to get rich quick—­out of this war you disapprove of.”