"At Edith's," her father answered. She reached up and took his hand, and held it slowly tighter.
"You aren't going to find it too lonely here, with Laura gone?" she asked him. And the wistfulness in her deep sweet voice made something thrill in Roger.
"Why should I?" he retorted. Deborah gave a queer little laugh.
"Oh, I'm just silly, that's all," she said. "I've been having a fit of blues. I've been feeling so old this afternoon—a regular old woman. I wanted you, dearie, and I was afraid that you—" she broke off.
"Look here," said Roger sharply. "Do you really want to keep this house?"
"Keep this house? Why, father!"
"You think you can stand it here alone, just the two of us?" he demanded.
"I can," cried Deborah happily. Her father walked to the window. There as he looked blindly out, his eyes were assaulted by the lights of all those titty-tatty flats. And a look of vicious triumph appeared for a moment on his face.
"Very well," he said quietly, turning back. "Then we're both suited." He went to the door. "I'll go and wash up for supper," he said.