"I don't know," she answered. "Surely you don't want to see him—." Her father snorted his contempt:
"See him? No. Nor she neither. She's not to see him. Understand?"
"I wouldn't tell her that to-night."
"Look here." Roger eyed his daughter a moment.
"You've done well. I've no complaint. But don't try to manage everything."
He went out and slowly climbed the stairs. Outside the bedroom door he paused. When had he stood like this before? In a moment he remembered. One evening some two years ago, the night before Laura's wedding, when they had had that other talk. And so it had come to this, had it. Well, there was no use making a scene. Again, with a sigh of weariness, Laura's father knocked at her door.
"Come in, Deborah," she said.
"It isn't Deborah, it's I." There was a little silence.
"Very well, father, come in, please." Her voice sounded tired and lifeless. He opened the door and found the room dark. "I'm over on the bed," she said. "I've had a headache this evening."
He came over to the bedside and he could just see her there, a long shadow upon the white. She had not taken off her clothes. He stood a moment helplessly.