They found Harold in the pantry.  Their Jap, it appeared, was a marvellous cook and did the catering as well, so that Laura rarely troubled herself to order so much as a single meal.  But her husband had for many years been famous for his cocktails, and although the Jap did everything else Hal had kept this in his own hands.

“I thought this much of the house-keeping ought to remain in the family,” he said.

Roger did not like this joke.  But later, when he had imbibed the delicious concoction Harold had made, and had eaten the dinner created by that Japanese artist of theirs, his irritation subsided.

“They barely know we’re here,” he thought.  “They’re both in love up to their ears.”

Despite their genial attempts to be hospitable and friendly, time and again he saw their glances meet in an intimate gleaming manner which made him rather uncomfortable.  But where was the harm, he asked himself.  They were married all right, weren’t they?  Still somehow—­somehow—­no, by George, he didn’t like it, he didn’t approve!  The whole affair was decidedly mixing.  Roger went away vaguely uneasy, and he felt that Deborah was even more disturbed than himself.

“Those two,” she remarked to her father, “are so fearfully wrapt up in each other it makes me afraid.  Oh, it’s all right, I suppose, and I wouldn’t for worlds try to interfere.  But I can’t help feeling somehow that no two people with such an abundance of youth and money and happiness have the right to be so amazingly—­selfish!”

“They ought to have children,” Roger said.

“But look at Edith,” his daughter rejoined.  “She hasn’t a single interest that I can find outside her home.  It seems to have swallowed her, body and soul.”  A frowning look of perplexity swept over Deborah’s mobile face, and with a whimsical sigh she exclaimed, “Oh, this queer business of families!”

In December there came a little crash.  Late one evening Laura came bursting in upon them in a perfect tantrum, every nerve in her lithe body tense, her full lips visibly quivering, her voice unsteady, and her big black eyes aflame with rage.  She was jealous of her husband and “that nasty little cat!” Roger learned no more about it, for Deborah motioned him out of the room.  He heard their two voices talk on and on, until Laura’s slowly quieted down.  Soon afterwards she left the house, and Deborah came in to him.

“She’s gone home, eh?” asked Roger.

“Yes, she has, poor silly child—­she said at first she had come here to stay.”

“By George,” he said.  “As bad as that?”

“Of course it isn’t as bad as that!” Deborah cried impatiently.  “She just built and built on silly suspicions and let herself get all worked up!  I don’t see what they’re coming to!” For a few moments nothing was said.  “It’s so unnatural!” she exclaimed.  “Men and women weren’t made to live like that!” Roger scowled into his paper.