what to do," she confessed, unhappily. "Your father's so upset about—about this new step he's taking—I don't feel as if we ought to———"
"No, no!" Alice cried. "Papa mustn't be distressed with this, on top of everything else. But something's got to be done about Walter."
"What can be?" her mother asked, helplessly. "What can be?"
Alice admitted that she didn't know.
At dinner, an hour later, Walter's habitually veiled glance lifted, now and then, to touch her furtively;—he was waiting, as he would have said, for her to "spring it"; and he had prepared a brief and sincere defense to the effect that he made his own living, and would like to inquire whose business it was to offer intrusive comment upon his private conduct. But she said nothing, while his father and mother were as silent as she. Walter concluded that there was to be no attack, but changed his mind when his father, who ate only a little, and broodingly at that, rose to leave the table and spoke to him.
"Walter," he said, "when you've finished I wish you'd come up to my room. I got something I want to say to you."
