"Is that you, Jim?" he would ask.
"Yep, that's me." And Frank Haley would nod contentedly and return to his reading.
Dot came into the room. She had laid aside her white pleated skirt and the brilliant-colored sweater. She was wearing a soiled and faded dress from which the sleeves had been torn. Threads hung from the jagged gashes and trailed dejectedly across the white firmness of Dot's arms.
"Did you have a good time, my dear?"
"Yes, Edna went with me, you know. We sailed up the Hudson on the Burma."
"That sounds very nice," said Dot's father.
"It was."
Mr. Haley's blue eyes waited politely to see if Dot wished to continue the conversation. After fifteen seconds of silence they supposed not and returned eagerly to the story.
Dot unfolded the rotogravure section of a newspaper and scanned without interest the pictures of some society folks, the funeral of a prominent politician, and the latest additions to the Bronx Zoo.
It was very quiet in the room. Dot pushed the paper from her and yawned widely. She considered going to bed, but Edna had given her a message for Jim. It was unsafe to trust it with her father, for he would twist and alter it beyond recognition. To leave a note for Jim would injure the feelings of the old man.
Dot waited, kicking impatiently against the thick golden-oak post that supported the table.
Her father looked up from his magazine. "You are scratching the table, Dottie," he said, reprovingly.
"One more scratch won't hurt," she replied.
Mr. Haley continued his reading. Dottie was perfectly correct. One more scratch wouldn't be noticed in that jungle of criss-cross marks, but the children must be re-
