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 blows? You don't look bruised, Cornelia. Now that you have wept, you look like a calla lily after rain."

"What have I done? I have done nothing but try to bring up my children as children should be brought up. And I am bruised and beaten. Oliver has betrayed me. I am fond of Oliver. I am his best friend. Oliver is—Oliver is a good deal of a dear—in his way. But it does seem as if, when it comes to the children, he acted like an irresponsible boy. Oliver is fifty-two. He acts as if he were fifteen, or as if he wished that he were."

"I don't doubt that he does," I said, "and I have always thought that his boyish gusto was a positive element in his charm, and the quality especially which makes his children so fond of him. But tell me, now, what he has done, and I'll try to judge him as he deserves."

Cornelia began doubtfully and far away from the main point, in accordance with the manual of tactics for women.

"Well, first of all," she said, "he came up here in an aeroplane. I have forbidden him to fly. At his age and with his family, he has no right to take such hazards merely to amuse himself."

"Perhaps not," I said, "but you know that you