Martin had made a success of his profession; his unfulfilled hopes had seemed to broaden his sympathies instead of damming them.

As the clock struck nine Martin appeared at the doorway—­a tall, massive figure, the shoulders inclined to droop as though prepared for burdens; the eyes, under shaggy brows, were as tender as a woman’s, but the mouth and chin were like iron.

“David, it was good of you to come.”  Doris met him on the steps and led him to his favourite chair, drawn close to the blazing fire.

“To take any chance leisure of yours is selfish—­but I had to!”

Martin took the outstretched hands and still held them as he sat down.  After all the silent years the old thrill filled his being.

“This is a great treat,” he said in his big, kind voice.  “I was just back in the office.  I steered two small craft into port this afternoon—­I need a vacation.”

Doris recalled how this phase of Martin’s profession always exhausted him, and she smiled gently into his eyes.  Just then the tray she had ordered was sent up.  He looked at it and his tired face relaxed; the deep eyes betrayed the boyish delight in the thought that had prompted the act.

“You must need me pretty bad to pay so high!” he said, watching Doris pour the thick cream into his cup of chocolate.

“I do, David, but really I’m not buying; I’m indulging myself.  May I chatter while you eat?  There are three kinds of sandwiches on the plate.  Take them in turn, they are warranted to blend.”  Then quite suddenly: 

“David, it’s about the children.  They are over nine.  What happens, physiologically, when children—­girls—­are—­are nearly ten?”

“Deviltry, often.  At nine they are too old to spank, too young to reason with—­it’s the dangerous age, at least the outer circle of the dangerous age.”  Martin tested the second sandwich.

“And the prescription?  What do you prescribe for the dangerous age?” Doris felt that it was best to edge toward the vital centre by circuitous routes.

“Barrels and bungholes or what stands for barrels and bungholes—­a good school where a mixture of discipline with home ideals prevail.  I know of several where giddy little flappers are marvellously licked into shape without danger of breaking.  I’ve felt for some time that your kids needed—­well, not love and care, surely, but a practical understanding.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, David?”

“People never appreciate what they do not pay for.  Now that you have offered up this tribute to the animal of me, I know you are ready for the other.”

“The other, David?”

“Yes, the best of me.  That always belongs to you.”

This was daring, and it sent Doris to cover while she caught her breath.  David calmly ate on.  After the sandwiches there was a bit of fruit cake made from the recipe handed down from the days of Grandfather Fletcher.