In his room he opened the safe in the corner where his collection of curious rings had lain unnoticed for many months.  He drew out a tray, sat down by the light and began to look them over.  At first only small inanimate objects, gradually as from tray after tray they glittered duskily up at him, they began to yield their riches as they had so often done before.  Spanish, French, Italian, Bohemian, Hungarian, Russian and Arabian, rings small and rings enormous, religious rings and magic rings, poison rings, some black with age for all his careful polishing—­again they stole deep into Roger’s imagination with suggestions of the many hands that had worn them through the centuries, of women kneeling in old churches, couples in dark crooked streets, adventures, love, hate, jealousy.  Youth and fire, dreams and passion....

At last he remembered why he was here.  He thought of possible purchasers.  He knew so many dealers, but he knew, too, that the war had played the devil with them as with everyone else.  Still, he thought of several who would find it hard to resist the temptation.  He would see them to-morrow, one by one, and get them bidding, haggling.  Roger frowned disgustedly.

No help for it, though, and it was a relief.  It would bring a truce in his house for a time.

* * * * *

But the truce was brief.

On the afternoon when he sold his collection Roger came home all out of sorts.  He had been forced to haggle long; it had been a mean inglorious day; one of the brightest paths in his life had ended in a pigstie.  But at least he had bought some peace in his home!  Women, women, women!  He shut the front door with a slam and went up to his room for a little rest, a little of what he had paid for!  On the stairs he passed young Betsy, and he startled the girl by the sudden glare of reproach he bestowed upon her.  Savagely he told himself he was no “feminist” that night!

The brief talk he had with Edith was far from reassuring.  With no Deborah there to wound her pride, Edith quickly showed herself friendly to her father; but when he advised her to keep her nurse, she at once refused to consider it.

“I want you to,” he persisted, with an anxious note in his voice.  He had tried life without Hannah here and he did not care to try it again.

“It is already settled, father, I sent her away this morning.”

“Then you get her right back!” he exclaimed.  But Edith’s face grew obstinate.

“I don’t care to give Deborah,” she replied, “another chance to talk as she did.”

Roger looked at her gloomily.  “You will, though,” he was thinking.  “You two have only just begun.  Let any little point arise, which a couple of men would settle offhand, and you two will get together and go it!  There’ll be no living in the house!”

With deepening displeasure he watched the struggle between them go on.  Sometimes it seemed to Roger there was not a topic he could bring up which would not in some way bring on a clash.  One night in desperation he proposed the theatre.