 what you do not understand."
    Charles, vexed both with his father and his wife, then repeated: "The question is--" He had cleared a space of the breakfast-table from plates and knives, so that he could draw patterns on the tablecloth.  "The question is whether Miss Schlegel, during the fortnight we were all away, whether she unduly--" He stopped.
    "I don't think that," said his father, whose nature was nobler than his son's
    "Don't think what?"
    "That she would have--that it is a case of undue influence.  No, to my mind the question is the--the invalid's condition at the time she wrote."
    "My dear father, consult an expert if you like, but I don't admit it is my mother's writing."
    "Why, you just said it was!" cried Dolly.
    "Never mind if I did," he blazed out; "and hold your tongue."
    The poor little wife coloured at this, and, drawing her handkerchief from her pocket, shed a few tears.  No one noticed her.  Evie was scowling like an angry boy.  The two men were gradually assuming the manner of the committee-room.  They were both at their best when serving on committees.  They did not make the mistake of handling human affairs in the bulk, but disposed of them item by item, sharply.  Calligraphy was the item before them now, and on it they turned their well-trained brains.  Charles, after a little demur, accepted the writing as genuine, and they passed on to the next point.  It is the best--perhaps the only--way of dodging emotion.  They were the average human article, and had they considered the note as a whole it would have driven them miserable or mad.  Considered item by item, the emotional content was minimized, and all went forward smoothly.  The clock ticked, the coals blazed higher, and contended with the white radiance that poured in through the windows.  Unnoticed, the sun occupied his sky, and the shadows of the tree stems, extraordinarily solid, fell like trenches of purple across the frosted lawn.  It was a glorious winter morning.  Evie's fox terrier, who had passed for white, was only a dirty grey dog now, so intense was the purity that surrounded him.  He was discredited, but the blackbirds that he was chasing glowed with Arabian darkness, for all the conventional colouring of life had
