“Yes,” said Roger, after a pause.

“Then suppose we go to her.  I’m sleeping up there for the next few nights.”

* * * * *

They found Edith in her living room.  She had sent the nurse out, put the children to bed, and left alone with nothing to do she had sat facing her first night.  Her light soft hair was disheveled, her pretty features pale and set.  But the moment Roger entered he saw that she had herself in hand.

“Well, father,” she said steadily.  “You’d better tell me about our affairs. My affairs,” she corrected herself.  When he had explained, she was silent a moment, and then in a voice harsh, bitter, abrupt, “That will be hard on the children,” she said.  On an impulse he started to take her hand, but she drew a little away from him.

“The children, my dear,” he said huskily, “will be taken care of always.”

“Yes.”  And again she was silent.  “I’ve been thinking I’d like to go up to the mountains—­right away,” she continued.

“Just our idea,” he told her.  “Deborah will arrange it at once.”

“That’s good of Deborah,” she replied.  And after another pause:  “But take her home with you—­will you?  I’d rather not have her here to-night.”

“I think she’d better stay, my dear.”

“All right.”  In a tone of weariness.  “Madge Deering called me up to-night.  She’s coming in town to-morrow, and she means to stay till I go.”

“I’m glad,” he said approvingly.  Madge had been a widow for years.  Living out in Morristown with four daughters to bring up, she had determinedly fought her way and had not only regained her hold but had even grown in strength and breadth since the death of her husband long ago.  “I’m glad,” he said.  “You and Madge—­” he paused.

“Yes, we’ll have a good deal in common,” Edith finished out his thought.  “You look tired, dad.  Hadn’t you better go home now?” she suggested after a moment.

“Yes,” said Roger, rising.  “Good-night, my child.  Remember.”

In the outer hallway he found Deborah with Laura.  Laura had been here several times.  She was getting Edith’s mourning.

“There’s a love of a hat at Thurn’s,” she was saying softly, “if only we can get her to wear it.  It’s just her type.”  And Laura drew an anxious breath.  “Anything,” she added, “to escape that hideous heavy crepe.”

Roger slightly raised his brows.  He noticed a faint delicious perfume that irritated him suddenly.  But glancing again at his daughter, trim, fresh and so immaculate, the joy of life barely concealed in her eyes, he stopped and talked and smiled at her, as Deborah was doing, enjoying her beauty and her youth, her love and all her happiness.  And though they spoke of her sister, she knew they were thinking of herself, and that it was quite right they should, for it gave them a little relief from their gloom.  She was honestly sorry for Edith, but she was sorrier still for Bruce, who she knew had always liked her more than he would have cared to say.  She was sorrier for Bruce because, while Edith had lost only her husband, Bruce had lost his very life.  And life meant so much to Laura, these days, the glowing, coursing, vibrant life of her warm beautiful body.  She was thinking of that as she stood in the hall.