Her father was standing at his desk frowning as he looked thoughtfully into space, and Mr. Campbell never frowned unless he had something to frown about.
"What's the matter, Papa?"
"Where are the others?"
"Gone to their rooms, I suppose, or in the garden. I didn't notice."
He drew an easy chair up by the open window and Billie took her seat on the arm and rested her cheek against his.
"Papa, is there any trouble brewing in this house?" she asked presently.
Mr. Campbell blew out a long column of smoke from his morning cigar.
"What makes you think so, sweetheart?" he asked.
"I can feel it. It's in the air—it's all about us. It's like a sort of plague. Nancy's got it, and now you are getting it, and I have a feeling I shall catch it, too."
"Has Nancy got it?"