“Oh, his teacher had to go to a wedding today.  Don’t you remember?  He doesn’t have any school till the afternoon session.”

She thought to herself, “What a sense of responsibility Paul has!  He is going to be one of the pillars of the earth, one of those miraculous human beings who are mixed in just the right proportions, so that they aren’t pulled two ways at once. Two ways!  Most of us are pulled a thousand ways!  It is one of the injustices of the earth that such people aren’t loved as much as impulsive, selfish, brilliant natures like dear little Mark’s.  Paul has had such a restful personality!  Even when he was a baby, he was so straight-backed and robust.  There’s no yellow streak in Paul, such as too much imagination lets in.  I know all about that yellow streak, alas!”

The little boy reached down lovingly, and patted the dog, sitting in a rigid attitude of expectancy by his side.  As the child turned the light of his countenance on those adoring dog eyes, the animal broke from his tenseness into a wriggling fever of joy.

“‘Oh, my God, my dear little God!’” quoted Marise to herself, watching uneasily the animal’s ecstasy of worship.  “I wish dogs wouldn’t take us so seriously.  We don’t know so much more than they, about anything.”  She thought, further, noticing the sweetness of the protecting look which Paul gave to Medor, “All animals love Paul, anyhow.  Animals know more than humans about lots of things.  They haven’t that horrid perverse streak in them that makes humans dislike people who are too often in the right.  Paul is like my poor father.  Only I’m here to see that Paul is loved as Father wasn’t.  Medor is not the only one to love Paul. I love Paul.  I love him all the more because he doesn’t get his fair share of love.  And old Mr. Welles loves him, too, bless him!”

“Roanoke River, Staunton River, Dan River,” murmured Elly, swallowing down her chocolate.  She stroked a kitten curled up on her lap.

“What shall I have for lunch today?” thought Marise.  “There are enough potatoes left to have them creamed.”

Like a stab came the thought, “Creamed potatoes to please our palates and thousands of babies in Vienna without milk enough to live!” She shook the thought off, saying to herself, “Well, would it make any difference to those Viennese babies if I deprived my children of palatable food?” and was aware of a deep murmur within her, saying only half-articulately, “No, it wouldn’t make any literal difference to those babies, but it might make a difference to you.  You are taking another step along the road of hardening of heart.”

All this had been the merest muted arpeggio accompaniment to the steady practical advance of her housekeeper’s mind.  “And beefsteak . . .  Mark likes that.  At fifty cents a pound!  What awful prices.  Well, Neale writes that the Canadian lumber is coming through.  That’ll mean a fair profit.  What better use can we put profit to, than in buying the best food for our children’s growth.  Beefsteak is not a sinful luxury!”