Whitney stopped the car at the first bedroom floor. "We will be far
more comfortable in my wife's boudoir than in my studio," he said. "Go
ahead, Spencer, first door to your right. I'll stop in my bedroom and
get some cigars."

Glancing curiously about the large attractive hall, Spencer entered the
daintily furnished boudoir, and was examining the many water colors and
photographs which hung on the walls, when Whitney came in carrying a
cigar box and a tray containing Scotch and vichy.

"That's some of Kathleen's work," he explained, observing that the
lawyer had picked up a miniature of Mrs. Whitney. "She is clever with
her brush."

"Very clever," agreed Spencer enthusiastically. "There is no one,
Whitney, whom I admire as I do your daughter," drawing a lounging
chair near the table on which his host put the tray. "Why does
Kathleen avoid me?"

"Does she?"

"She does," with bitter emphasis. "And it cuts--deep."

"You are supersensitive," protested Whitney politely. "I do not for a
moment believe Kathleen would intentionally hurt your feelings."

Spencer did not answer at once, and chafing inwardly at being kept from
his work in the studio, Whitney glared first at his guest and then at the
clock, but the hint was lost.