The Swing of the Pendulum by Adriana Spadoni

"What are you doing, daddy?"

Gregory started, for Puck had come so lightly in her little rubber-soled sandals that he had not heard her.

"Making a house, Pucklets."

"Let me see. " Puck spoke with Gregory's quiet determination, as if she always expected to have to hold out against some opposition. It sat oddly with her golden hair and the delicate oval of her face which were Margaret's.

"Well, look at it. See, that's the floor and these are the walls. " Gregory moved so that Puck could come closer, but went on with his work.

"What's that? " A ridiculous duplicate of Margaret's forefinger pointed to a square separated from the main plan.

"That's a room."

"A room?"

"Surely. Look; there are the two windows and there's the door."

She made no comment and after a moment Gregory forgot her, standing so still, her chin just touching his shoulder.

"There isn't any top on that house," she announced suddenly. "It's a funny house. I don't like it."

At the same moment Margaret Allen appeared in the doorway.

"Why, Gregory, aren't you going to take her? It's after eleven now."

"Um. " Gregory was making lines on a separate sheet and heard only the modulated run of the words. He rarely paid any conscious attention to Margaret's remarks in the making, because he could always come in on time at the end.

Puck looked from her father to her mother. Her under lip drew in as her mother's did when she was hurt, but it was with the man's straight look of facing a difficulty that she turned away.

"I guess daddy's too busy to play with Puck. The house hasn't got its roof on yet."

"Gregory! She's been looking forward to it so all week. Why, you're working!"

"What did you think I was doing? " Gregory looked up curiously; he so often felt as if she were the child and Puck the woman.

"I thought it was one of those water color things."

Gregory sometimes rested his eyes during these week-ends through the summer, sketching the woods and soft green fields. They were not bad sketches, but Margaret had no respect for them. Subconsciously she was jealous of them. They stood for something in Gregory that had escaped her. With more courage than any one gave her credit for, Margaret Allen had long ago buried her early belief in her husband's ability. She had been very sure when she married him, a year after his graduation from the Beaux Arts with honors, that he was going to be a rich and famous architect. Neither the fame nor the riches had come in spite of her early efforts to connect with people who could be of service. Nor later, when she had recognized the uselessness of trying to force Gregory along these paths, and turned her influence to taking a personal interest, which meant asking questions about technical details which she could not understand. The little water color sketches were like relics that Gregory had kept from the years before he knew her, and when he had gone back to the office on Monday mornings, and she came on a sketch among the scattered sheets of the Sunday paper, she felt almost as if it were the possession of some woman who had an illicit place in her husband's life.