Robert Monroe stood up below the window in a dizzy, uncertain fashion.  Aunt Isabel had been speaking of him!  He, Robert, was a failure, a disgrace to his blood, of whom his nearest and dearest were ashamed!  Yes, it was true; he had never realized it before; he had known that he could never win power or accumulate riches, but he had not thought that mattered much.  Now, through Aunt Isabel’s scornful eyes, he saw himself as the world saw him—­as his brothers and sisters must see him.  There lay the sting.  What the world thought of him did not matter; but that his own should think him a failure and disgrace was agony.  He moaned as he started to walk across the yard, only anxious to hide his pain and shame away from all human sight, and in his eyes was the look of a gentle animal which had been stricken by a cruel and unexpected blow.

Edith Monroe, who, unaware of Robert’s proximity, had been standing on the other side of the porch, saw that look, as he hurried past her, unseeing.  A moment before her dark eyes had been flashing with anger at Aunt Isabel’s words; now the anger was drowned in a sudden rush of tears.

She took a quick step after Robert, but checked the impulse.  Not then—­and not by her alone—­could that deadly hurt be healed.  Nay, more, Robert must never suspect that she knew of any hurt.  She stood and watched him through her tears as he went away across the low-lying shore fields to hide his broken heart under his own humble roof.  She yearned to hurry after him and comfort him, but she knew that comfort was not what Robert needed now.  Justice, and justice only, could pluck out the sting, which otherwise must rankle to the death.

Ralph and Malcolm were driving into the yard.  Edith went over to them.

“Boys,” she said resolutely, “I want to have a talk with you.”

The Christmas dinner at the old homestead was a merry one.  Mrs. James spread a feast that was fit for the halls of Lucullus.  Laughter, jest, and repartee flew from lip to lip.  Nobody appeared to notice that Robert ate little, said nothing, and sat with his form shrinking in his shabby “best” suit, his gray head bent even lower than usual, as if desirous of avoiding all observation.  When the others spoke to him he answered deprecatingly, and shrank still further into himself.

Finally all had eaten all they could, and the remainder of the plum pudding was carried out.  Robert gave a low sigh of relief.  It was almost over.  Soon he would be able to escape and hide himself and his shame away from the mirthful eyes of these men and women who had earned the right to laugh at the world in which their success gave them power and influence.  He—­he—­only—­was a failure.

He wondered impatiently why Mrs. James did not rise.  Mrs. James merely leaned comfortably back in her chair, with the righteous expression of one who has done her duty by her fellow creatures’ palates, and looked at Malcolm.