Roger shrugged; then stopped and looked at the little figure turned toward the fire.
"No," he said slowly. "He won't dismiss me—yet."
Anne got up and began to clear the table. Roger came forward to help as he always did, but Anne insisted he was tired.
"Besides you have to make the report to-night. I can do these few things quite well."
Roger looked at the clock. "And I'd better hurry, too. It's half past eight now."
Still he continued to walk up and down while Anne thoughtfully washed the dishes. She had just finished when he came to kiss her good-night.
"Don't wait up, dear, I may be late."
Anne went to the door with him, then came back, turned out the lights and made up the fire.
Deep in the easy chair, Anne felt the battling and struggling far down under the pleasant surface of life. Rough men, like Angelo Sabatini, were striking blindly up at her peaceful security. Anne looked slowly around the quiet room, uncluttered by useless furniture, wide, clean and calm. She loved her living-room. It was almost alive to her. Anne's lips trembled.
"He takes things so hard," she whispered to herself, "and one person can't really do anything."