“It’s I,” said Roger sternly.  “Did Miss Deborah say when she’d be back?”

“She didn’t go out, sir.  She’s up in her room.”

Roger went up and found her there.  All afternoon with both the maids she had been setting the house to rights, and now she ached in every limb.  She was lying on her bed, and she looked as though she had been crying.

“Where have you been?” she inquired.

“At Edith’s,” her father answered.  She reached up and took his hand, and held it slowly tighter.

“You aren’t going to find it too lonely here, with Laura gone?” she asked him.  And the wistfulness in her deep sweet voice made something thrill in Roger.

“Why should I?” he retorted.  Deborah gave a queer little laugh.

“Oh, I’m just silly, that’s all,” she said.  “I’ve been having a fit of blues.  I’ve been feeling so old this afternoon—­a regular old woman.  I wanted you, dearie, and I was afraid that you—­” she broke off.

“Look here,” said Roger sharply.  “Do you really want to keep this house?”

“Keep this house?  Why, father!”

“You think you can stand it here alone, just the two of us?” he demanded.

“I can,” cried Deborah happily.  Her father walked to the window.  There as he looked blindly out, his eyes were assaulted by the lights of all those titty-tatty flats.  And a look of vicious triumph appeared for a moment on his face.

“Very well,” he said quietly, turning back.  “Then we’re both suited.”  He went to the door.  “I’ll go and wash up for supper,” he said.

CHAPTER VIII

It was a relief to him to find how smoothly he and Deborah dropped back into their old relations.  It was good to get home those evenings; for in this new stage of its existence, with its family of two, the house appeared to have filled itself with a deep reposeful feeling.  Laura had gone out of its life.  He glanced into her room one night, and it looked like a guest room now.  The sight of it brought him a pang of regret.  But the big ship which was bearing her swiftly away to “Paris in June” seemed bearing off Roger’s uneasiness too.  He could smile at his former fears, for Laura was safely married and wildly in love with her husband.  Time, he thought, would take care of the rest.  Occasionally he missed her here—­her voice, high-pitched but musical, chatting and laughing at the ’phone, her bustle of dressing to go out, glimpses of her extravagances, of her smart suits and evening gowns, of all the joyous color and dash that she had given to his home.  But these regrets soon died away.  The old house shed them easily, as though glad to enter this long rest.