To-night, however, Martie gave it neither glance nor thought.  She picked up her father’s slippers and ran downstairs again, going to kneel before him and put them on his feet.  As she did so her young warm hand felt the cool, slender length of his foot in the thin stocking, and she was conscious of repugnance that even the slightest contact with her father always caused her.  There was a definite antagonism between Malcolm and his youngest daughter, suspected by neither.  But Martie knew that she did not like the faint odour of his moustache, his breath, and his skin, on those rather infrequent occasions when he kissed her, and her father was well aware that in baffling him, evading him, and anticipating him, Martie was more annoying than the three other children combined.

“Where’s your son?” asked the man of the house, as the dinner, accompanied by his wife, came in from the kitchen.

“I don’t know, Pa,” Mrs. Monroe said earnestly yet soothingly.  “Come, girls.  Come, Pa!”

Malcolm rose stiffly, and went to his place.

“He comes and goes as if his father’s house was a hotel, does he?” he asked, as one merely curious.  “Is that the idea?”

“Why, no, Pa.”  Mrs. Monroe was serving an uninteresting meal on heavy plates decorated in toneless brown.  Soda crackers and sliced bread were on the table, and a thin slice of butter on a blue china plate.  The teaspoons stood erect in a tumbler of red pressed glass.  The younger girls had old, thin silver napkin rings; their mother’s was of orange-wood with “Souvenir of Santa Cruz” painted on it; and Lydia and her father used little strips of scalloped and embroidered linen.  Lydia had read of these in a magazine and had made them herself, and as her daughterly love swept over all the surface ugliness of his character, she alone among his children sometimes caught a glimpse of her father’s heart.  She had an ideal of fatherhood, had gentle, silent, useless Lydia—­formed upon the genial, sunshiny type of parent popular in books, and she cast a romantic veil over disappointed, selfish, crossgrained Malcolm Monroe and delighted in little daughterly attentions to him.  She sat next to him at table, and put her own kindly interpretation upon his moods.

“I confess I don’t understand your tactics with that boy!” he said now irritably.

“Well, he came in after school, and asked could he go out with the other boys, and I didn’t feel you would disapprove, Pa,” Mrs. Monroe said in a worried voice.  “Do eat your dinner before it gets all cold!  Lenny’ll be here.  You’ll get one of your bad headaches ... here he is!”

For, to the great relief of his mother and sisters, Leonard Monroe really did break in from the hall at this point, flinging his cap toward the hat rack with one hand as he opened the door with the other.  A big, well-developed boy of seventeen was Lenny, dearest of all her children to his mother, her son and her latest-born, and the secret hope of his father’s heart.