CHAPTER IX
Deborah needed rest, he thought; for the bright attractive face of his daughter was looking rather pale of late, and the birthmark on her forehead showed a faint thin line of red. One night at dinner, watching her, he wondered what was on her mind. She had come in late, and though several times she had made an effort to keep up the conversation, her cheeks were almost colorless and more than once in her deepset eyes came a flash of pain that startled him.
"Look here. What's the matter with you?" he asked. Deborah looked up quickly.
"I'd rather not talk about it, dad—"
"Very well," he answered. And with a slight hesitation, "But I think I know the trouble," he said. "And perhaps some other time—when you do feel like talking—" He stopped, for on her wide sensitive lips he saw a twitch of amusement.
"What do you think is the trouble?" she asked. And Roger looked at her squarely.
"Loneliness," he answered.
"Why?" she asked him.
"Well, there's Edith's baby—and Laura getting married—"
"I see—and so I'm lonely for a family of my own. But you're forgetting my school," she said.
"Yes, yes, I know," he retorted. "But that's not at all the same. Interesting work, no doubt, but—well, it isn't personal."
"Oh, isn't it?" she answered, and she drew a quivering breath. Rising from the table she went into the living
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