and Mrs. Basil
Sequin found time in their busy lives to discuss a family matter.
There was no particular lack of interest on either side, it was simply
that their hours did not happen to fit. When he was not at his club,
she was at hers; when she was dining at home, he was detained at a
directors' meeting; when he went North to a Bankers' Convention, she
went South to attend a bridge tournament. So it was small wonder the
butler, removing the breakfast things, should have looked puzzled when
Mr. and Mrs. Sequin remained at table in earnest conversation.
Mr. Sequin was a thin, stooped man, prematurely old at fifty. The
harassed, driven expression that was so habitual to his face had
plowed furrows that no lighter mood could now erase. His present mood,
however, was not a light one. He sat with his hand shading his eyes,
and scowled gloomily at the tablecloth.
"I told you a month ago," he was saying, "that you'd have to cut some
of the expenses on the new house. We've already gone twenty thousand
over the original estimate. There isn't a month now that our accounts
are not overdrawn. Nothing has been said directly, but it is known on
the street.
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