Days passed.  Christmas came at last, and despite Edith’s glum resolution to make it a happy time for the children, the happiness soon petered out.  After the tree in the morning, the day hung heavy on the house.  Roger buried himself in his study.  Laura had motored off into the country with a gay party of her friends.  Or was this just a ruse, he wondered, and was she spending the day with her lover?  Well, what if she was?  Could he lock her in?

About twilight he thought he heard her return, and later from his bedroom he heard her voice and Edith’s.  Both voices sounded angry, but he would not interfere.

At the Christmas dinner that evening Laura did not put in an appearance, but Edith sat stiff and silent there; and despite the obvious efforts which Deborah and Allan made to be genial with the children, the very air in the room was charged with the feeling of trouble close ahead.  Again Roger retreated into his den, and presently Laura came to him.

“Good-night—­I’m going out,” she said, and she pressed her cheek lightly to his own.  “What a dear you’ve been to me, dad,” she murmured.  And then she was gone.

A few minutes later Edith came in.  She held a small note in her hand, which Roger saw was addressed to himself.

“Well, father, I learned this afternoon what you’ve been keeping from me,” she said.  Roger gave her a steady look.

“You did, eh—­Laura told you?”

“Yes, she did!” his daughter exclaimed.  “And I can’t help wondering, father—­”

“Why did she tell you?  Have you been at her again to-day?”

“Again?  Not at all,” she answered.  “I’ve done as you asked me to, let her alone.  But to-day—­mother’s day—­I got thinking of her.”

“Leave your mother out of it, please.  What did you say to Laura?”

“I tried to make her go back, of course—­”

“And she told you—­”

“He wouldn’t have her!  And then in a perfect tantrum she went on to tell me why!” Edith’s eyes were cold with disgust.  “And I’m wondering why you let her stay here—­in the same house with my children!”

Roger reached out his hand.

“Give me that note,” he commanded.  He read it quickly and handed it back.  The note was from Laura, a hasty good-bye.

“Edith will explain,” she wrote, “and you will see I cannot stay any longer.  It is simply too impossible.  I am going to the man I love—­and in a few days we shall sail for Naples.  I know you will not interfere.  It will make the divorce even simpler and everything easier all round.  Please don’t worry about me.  We shall soon be married over there.  You have been so dear and sensible and I do so love you for it.”  Then came her name scrawled hastily.  And at the bottom of the page:  “I have paid every bill I can think of.”

Edith read it in silence, her color slowly mounting.

“All right,” said her father, “your children are safe.”  She gave him a quick angry look, burst into tears and ran out of the room.