"I'll get you some toast directly," said Mrs. Witherbee. "And how do you like your tea?"
Reginald guffawed, then apologized:
"Excuse me; didn't mean to be rude. But if you've got any cold ham in the house and some bread and butter, and a scuttle of hot coffee you needn't bother about the toast and tea. And you needn't fetch it out here; lead me to it."
The Winter girls exchanged apprehensive glances. Mr. Witherbee made a sign to his wife, who disappeared into the house. Rosalind followed her. The two ladies met in the pantry.
"I—I'm frightened to death," whispered Mrs. Witherbee. "Is he always that way?"
"Nearly always," sighed Rosalind. "That's what makes it so sad."
"I hadn't thought of it as being sad, my dear. It—it just seems sort of terrible. Doesn't he know?"
"Ssh! Of course not. He doesn't even suspect."
"The poor man!" said Mrs. Witherbee softly. "Then it is sad, isn't it? Isn't there any way to—control him?"
"It's very difficult," admitted Rosalind. "He's headstrong. And of course, not knowing, you can't expect him to restrain himself. He's always been accustomed to leading an active life."