He tried to peer into that world ahead, dazzling, distant as the sun.  But then with a sigh he returned to the news, and little by little his mind again was gripped and held by the most compelling of all appeals so far revealed in humanity’s growth, the appeal of war to the mind of a man.  He frowned as he read, but he read on.  Why didn’t England send over more men?

The clock struck nine.

“Now, George.  Now, Elizabeth,” Edith said.  With the usual delay and reluctance the children brought their work to an end, kissed their mother and went up to bed.  And Edith continued sewing.  Presently she smiled to herself.  Little Tad had been so droll that day.

On the third page of his paper, Roger’s glance was arrested by a full column story concerning Deborah’s meeting that night.  And as in a long interview he read here in the public print the same things she had told him at supper, he felt a little glow of pride.  Yes, this daughter of his was a wonderful woman, living a big useful life, taking a leading part in work which would certainly brighten the lives of millions of children still unborn.  Again he felt the tonic of it.  Here was a glimmer of hope in the world, here was an antidote to war.  He finished the column and glanced up.

Edith was still sewing.  He thought of her plan to sell all she possessed in order to put her children back in their expensive schools uptown.

“Why can’t she save her money?” he thought.  “God knows there’s little enough of it left.  But I can’t tell her that.  If I do she’ll sell everything, hand me the cash and tell me she’s sorry to be such a burden.  She’ll sit like a thundercloud in my house.”

No, he could say nothing to stop her.  And over the top of his paper her father shot a look at her of keen exasperation.  Why risk everything she had to get these needless frills and fads?  Why must she cram her life so full of petty plans and worries and titty-tatty little jobs?  For the Lord’s sake, leave their clothes alone!  And why these careful little rules for every minute of their day, for their washing, their dressing, their eating, their napping, their play and the very air they breathed!  He crumpled his paper impatiently.  She was always talking of being old-fashioned.  Well then, why not be that way?  Let her live as her grandmother had, up there in the mountain farmhouse. She had not been so particular.  With one hired girl she had thought herself lucky.  And not only had she cooked and sewed, but she had spun and woven too, had churned and made cheese and pickles and jam and quilts and even mattresses.  Once in two months she had cut Roger’s hair, and the rest of the time she had let him alone, except for something really worth while—­a broken arm, for example, or church.  She had stuck to the essentials!...  But Edith was not old-fashioned, nor was she alive to this modern age.  In short, she was neither here nor there!