"It's a bright thought, my dear," said Mr. Fabian. "The office will be able to struggle along without Edgar, and then we can close the house and I can live at the club."
"Not too long," said his wife, so pleased at her sudden success that she put her arms around his neck and kissed him. "Not too long, Henry. You must take a long vacation this year."
He returned her caress. "One day at a time," he said briefly.
Mrs. Fabian sought her pillow, well-pleased; and contrary to her habit, she was up betimes next morning, and hastened to her son's room before he came down to breakfast.
"Can I come in?" she asked, knocking.
Edgar was in his shirt-sleeves adjusting his tie; and when he opened the door and saw his mother, he gave an exclamation.
"What's the matter?" he asked. "Too hot to sleep?"
A cloudless sun was promising another day with a soaring thermometer.
Mrs. Fabian noted the hard questioning in her boy's eyes. She knew he considered her his father's aid in denying him the right to spend as a millionaire's son should—knew that his attitude toward her had long been defensive; and that her unusual visit to his room roused only his suspicion of something disagreeable.
"Do you mind if I come in, dear?" she asked, her soft silks trailing noiselessly as she moved across the room. "I am so interested in what I hear about your music."