“They come only about once a month,” he said in a tone of pathos, “but it seems as though barely a week had gone by when Edith says to me again, ‘We’re dining with Laura and Hal to-night.’  Well, and we dine.  Young Sloane is not a bad sort of a chap—­works hard downtown and worships his wife.  The way he lives—­well, it isn’t mine—­and mine isn’t his—­and we both let it go at that.  But the women can’t, they haven’t it in ’em.  Each sits with her way of life in her lap.  You can’t see it over the tablecloth, but, my God, how you feel it!  The worst of it is,” he ended, “that after one of these terrible meals each woman is more set than before in her own way of living.  Not that I don’t like Edith’s way,” her husband added hastily.

Edith also disapproved of the fast increasing publicity which Deborah was getting.

“I may be very old-fashioned,” she remarked to her father, “but I can’t get used to this idea that a woman’s place is in headlines.  And I think it’s rather hard on you—­the use she’s making of your house.”

One Friday night when she came to play chess, she found her father in the midst of a boisterous special meeting of his club of Italian boys.  It had been postponed from the evening before.  And though Roger, overcome with dismay at having forgotten Edith’s night, apologized profusely, the time-honored weekly game took place no more from that day on.

“Edith’s pretty sore,” said Bruce, who dropped in soon afterwards.  “She says Deborah has made your house into an annex to her school.”

Roger smoked in silence.  His whole family was about his ears.

“My boy,” he muttered earnestly, “you and I must stick together.”

“We sure must,” agreed his son-in-law.  “And what’s more, if we’re to keep the peace, we’ve got to try to put some punch into Deborah’s so-called love affair.  She ought to get married and settle down.”

“Yes,” said Roger, dubiously.  “Only let’s keep it to ourselves.”

“No chance of that,” was the cheerful reply.  “You can’t keep Edith out of it.  It would only make trouble in my family.”  Roger gave him a pitying look and said,

“Then, for the Lord’s sake, let her in!”

So they took Edith into their councils, and she gave them an indulgent smile.

“Suppose you leave this to me,” she commanded.  “Don’t you think I’ve been using my eyes?  There’s no earthly use in stepping in now, for Deborah has lost her head.  She sees herself a great new woman with a career.  But wait till the present flare-up subsides, till the newspapers all drop her and she is thoroughly tired out.  Until then, remember, we keep our hands off.”

“Do you think you can?” asked Roger, with a little glimmer of hope.

“I?” she retorted.  “Most certainly!  I mean to leave her alone absolutely—­until she comes to me herself.  When she does, we’ll know it’s time to begin.”

* * * * *