But Adelaide was laughing and going forward gracefully with her duties as waitress.  “It’s nothing,” she said; “the stain will come out; and, if it doesn’t, there’s no harm done.  The dress is an old thing.  I’ve worn it until everybody’s sick of the sight of it.”

Mrs. Ranger now took her turn at looking disapproval.  She exclaimed:  “Why, the dress is as good as new; much too good to travel in.  You ought to have worn a linen duster over it on the train.”

At this even Hiram showed keen amusement, and Mrs. Ranger herself joined in the laugh.  “Well, it was a good, sensible fashion, anyhow,” said she.

Instead of hurrying through dinner to get back to his work with the one o’clock whistle, Hiram Ranger lingered on, much to the astonishment of his family.  When the faint sound of the whistles of the distant factories was borne to them through the open windows, Mrs. Ranger cried, “You’ll be late, father.”

“I’m in no hurry to-day,” said Ranger, rousing from the seeming abstraction in which he passed most of his time with his assembled family.  After dinner he seated himself on the front porch.  Adelaide came up behind and put her arm round his neck.  “You’re not feeling well, daddy?”

“Not extra,” he answered.  “But it’s nothing to bother about.  I thought I’d rest a few minutes.”  He patted her in shy expression of gratitude for her little attention.  It is not strange that Del overvalued the merit of these trivial attentions of hers when they were valued thus high by her father, who longed for proofs of affection and, because of his shyness and silence, got few.

“Hey, Del!  Hurry up!  Get into your hat and dust-coat!” was now heard, in Arthur’s voice, from the drive to the left of the lawns.

Hiram’s glance shifted to the direction of the sound.  Arthur was perched high in a dogcart to which were attached two horses, one before the other.  Adelaide did not like to leave her father with that expression on his face, but after a brief hesitation she went into the house.  Hiram advanced slowly across the lawn toward the tandem.  When he had inspected it in detail, at close range, he said:  “Where’d you get it, young gentleman?” Again there was stress on the “gentleman.”

“Oh, I’ve had it at Harvard several months,” he replied carelessly.  “I shipped it on.  I sold the horses—­got a smashing good price for ’em.  Yours ain’t used to tandem, but I guess I can manage ’em.”

“That style of hitching’s new to these parts,” continued Hiram.

Arthur felt the queerness of his father’s tone.  “Two, side by side, or two, one in front of the other—­where’s the difference?”

True, reflected Hiram.  He was wrong again—­yet again unconvinced.  Certainly the handsome son, so smartly gotten up, seated in this smart trap, did look attractive—­but somehow not as he would have had his son look.  Adelaide came; he helped her to the lower seat.  As he watched them dash away, as fine-looking a pair of young people as ever gladdened a father’s eye, this father’s heart lifted with pride—­but sank again.  Everything seemed all right; why, then, did everything feel all wrong?