The Judge opened the door and propelled himself into the room in a finicking, faultfinding way, peculiarly inappropriate to his massive shoulders and head. He grunted something to Sard's "Good-morning, Dad," picked up his paper and flapped it into a fold. His slow eyes, seeming like ground glass set in front of the remorseless deliberations of his mind, paused at the coffee-urn, as he made inquiry:
"Dunstan not down yet?"
For answer Dunstan Bogart shuffled down the broad stairs and, slipping on a rug, entered the dining-room with an operatic air of being in extreme haste. Half tumbling into the room, he halted, dramatically, appearing to remind himself that the breakfast-room was holy ground. "Greeting to thee, fellow sufferers," he announced cheerfully. He made passes at his father's back, stared his aunt solemnly in the face, ruffled Sard's hair and finally took his seat.
"Frogs in the finger-bowls again?" he questioned sepulchrally. "Else why all this gloom?"
The Judge, unnoticing, motioned his finished grapefruit away. No one appearing to effect this transfer, he indicated the butler's pantry back of him and Sard felt anew for the electric bell.
"I wonder if this thing works—it doesn't seem to ring in the kitchen."
"It is at present ringing in the chicken-coop and the garage," announced Dunstan; "I heard it as I dressed—it is ringing in the furnace and in the fountain; it is ringing in Heaven, it is ringing—in—excuse me."
The Judge, twitching the paper, looked at his son. "She ought to hear it," he growled; "ring it again."
Dunstan suddenly dived under the table, feeling for the button.