“Indeed!” returned Mr. Evringham.  “Will you walk out?  Mrs. Forbes tells me that dinner is served.”

Eloise, hastily drawing her handkerchief across her eyes, passed the unbending figure, her cheeks stinging.  His hard voice was in her ears.

That she was not his son’s child hurt her now as often before in the past two months, but that he should have discovered her weeping at a moment when he might have been expected to enter was a keen hurt to her pride, and her heart swelled with a suspicion of his unspoken thoughts.  She had never been effusive, she had never posed.  He had no right to suspect her.

With her small head carried high and her cheeks glowing, she passed him, following her mother, who floated on before with much satisfaction.  These opportune tears shed by her nonconforming child should make their stay good for another two months at least.

“You must have had a beautiful ride, father,” said Mrs. Evringham as they seated themselves at table.  She spoke in the tone, at once assured and ingratiating, which she always adopted toward him.  “I noticed you took an earlier start than usual.”

The speaker had never had the insight to discover that her father-in-law was ungrateful for proofs that any of his long-fixed, solitary habits were now observed by feminine eyes.

“I did take a rather longer ride than usual,” he returned.  “Mrs. Forbes, I wish you would speak to the cook about the soup.  It has been served cool for the last two days.”

Mrs. Forbes flushed as she stood near his chair in her trim black gown and white apron.

“Yes, sir,” she replied, the flush and quiet words giving little indication of the tumult aroused within her by her employer’s criticism.  To fail to please Mr. Evringham at his meals was the deepest mortification life held for her.

“I’m sure it tastes very good,” said Mrs. Evringham amiably, “although I like a little more salt than your cook uses.”

“You can reach it I hope,” remarked the host, casting a glance at the dainty solitaire salt and pepper beside his daughter’s plate.

“But don’t you like it cooked in?” she asked sweetly.

“Not when I want to get it out,” he answered shortly.

“How can mother, how can mother!” thought Eloise helplessly.

“There is decided spring in the air to-day,” said Mrs. Evringham.  “I remember of old how charmingly spring comes in the park.”

“You have a good memory,” returned Mr. Evringham dryly.

“Why do you say that?” asked the pretty widow, lifting large, innocent eyes.

“It is some years since you accompanied Lawrence in his calls upon me, I believe.”

“Poor father!” thought Mrs. Evringham, “how unpleasantly blunt he has grown, living here alone!”

“I scarcely realize it,” she returned suavely.  “My recollection of the park is always so clear.  It is surprising, isn’t it, how relatives can live as near together as we in New York and you out here and see one another so seldom!  Life in New York,” sighing, “was such a rush for us.  Here amid the rustle of the trees it seems to be scarcely the same world.  Lawrence often said his only lucid intervals were during the rides he took with Eloise in Central Park.  Do you always ride alone, father?”