The wailing, lugubrious notes of the negro lament rose now, Paul’s voice loud and clear and full of relish.  “It takes a heavy stimulant to give Paul his sensations,” thought his father.  “What would take the hide right off of Elly, just gives him an agreeable tingle.”  His pipe went out as he listened, and he reached for a match.  The song stopped.  Someone had come in.  He heard Paul’s voice cry joyfully, “Oh goody, Mr. Welles, come on up to the piano.”

Neale leaned forward with a slightly unpleasant stirring of his blood and listened to see if the old man had come alone.  No, of course he hadn’t.  He never did.

There was Eugenia’s voice saying, “Good-evening, Mr. Marsh.”  She would move over for him on the sofa and annex him with a look.  Well, let her have him.  He was her kind more than theirs, the Lord knew.  Probably he was used to having that sort of woman annex him.

Neale moved his head restlessly and shifted his position.  His pipe and his arm-chair had lost their savor.  The room seemed hot to him and he got up to open a window.  Standing there by the open sash, looking out into the blue, misty glory of an overclouded moonlight night, he decided that he would not go in at all, and join them.  He felt tired and out of sorts, he found.  And they were such infernal talkers, Eugenia and Marsh.  It wore you out to hear them, especially as you felt all the time that their speculations on life and human nature were so far off, that it would be just wasting your breath to try to set them right.  He’d stay here in the study and smoke and maybe doze off a little, till they went away.  Marise had known he had business figuring to do, and she would have a perfectly valid excuse to give them for his non-appearance.  Not that he had any illusions as to anybody there missing him at all.

He heard Mark’s little voice sound shrilly from the pantry, “Come on, Elly.  It’s all right.  I’ve even putten away the book that’s got that song.”

Some splendid, surging shouts from the piano and the voices began on “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”  Neale could hear Mr. Welles’ shaky old bass booming away this time.  He was probably sitting down with Paul on his knees.  It was really nice of the old codger to take such a fancy to Paul, and be able to see those sterling qualities of his, through Paul’s surface unloveliness that came mostly from his slowness of imagination.

The voices stopped; Elly said, “That song sounds as if it were proud of itself.”  Her father’s heart melted in the utter prostration of tenderness he felt for his little daughter.  How like Elly!  What a quick intelligence animated the sensitive, touching, appealing, defenseless darling that Elly was!  Marise must have been a little girl like that.  Think of her growing up in such an atmosphere of disunion and flightiness as that weak mother of hers must have given her.  Queer, how Marise didn’t seem to have a trace of that weakness, unless it was