One afternoon Phillip brought home a letter for his father. The address was typewritten. It had been posted in Boston. Felix seldom received any mail, except advertisements and bills occasionally.
Sheilah placed the letter on the kitchen shelf. It was once her custom to open Felix's mail herself, but since Roger's advent, she had made a point with Felix and the children, of the importance of respecting the privacy of any sealed message.
Luckily Felix was alone when he opened his letter, and so had an opportunity to devise some sort of explanation to give to Sheilah. He told her when he joined her at supper later, that the agent who had sold his doll-house several years ago, had had an inquiry for another doll-house, and he guessed he'd better run down to Boston in a day or two and see him about it, though probably it would prove a wild-goose chase. Felix still worked at his bench evenings. It was set up in a corner of the dining-room here in the brown house, too.
In reality Felix's letter was from Mr. Bullard, the president of the concern where he had been employed by Mr. Fairchild for so many years. The first sentence of the letter referred to Mr. Fairchild's
