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the necessity for him to have seen Patricia home. Then he remembered that he was self-condemned by his action of sleeping apart.

There had come the sound of pattering, exploring footsteps; his door had been pushed open cautiously, and little Joan had stood upon the threshold regarding him with grave concern.

“Hello, Daddy! What are you doing in here all by yourself? Are you sick?”

“Not very well, Joan,” he had lied, failing to achieve a smile. “Daddy has a bad headache. Must sleep it off.”

Joan had edged into the room sympathetically.

“Does Mummy know?”

“I think so, dear.”

At that moment he had heard Grace’s footsteps in the passage.

“Go away, Joan,” he had commanded harshly, in an effort to stem his panic. “And shut the door.”

Before the child could recover from her hurt astonishment at his sudden anger, Grace had entered the room quietly, smiling at the child as lovingly as ever. She had run her fingers through Joan’s) hair and had stooped to kiss her.

“Run along now, dear,” she had said. “Go and dress. I want to talk with daddy.”

His heart had shrunk at the final words and he had kept his gaze upon the embroidered apron which Grace wore, not daring to look into her face. When she had closed the door upon the child Grace stood with her back to it gazing inscrutably at him for interminable seconds; then she had crossed the room slowly and sat upon his bed. He had drawn up his knees that he might not be guilty of touching her. His gaze remained fixed and he looked at the lower panels of the door, fearfully apprehensive of her first words.

“Jimmy,” she had said, sitting with her hands folded in her lap, “have you anything to tell me?”