"I'm to stay here till Fred comes back," Vera told him, opening her eyes upon him. (Fred was the husband.) "He won't be home for another fortnight, at least. Are you prepared to tolerate me for a fortnight?" He thought he was, he smiled; he sat down on the divan not far from her sofa and gazed at her in a rather shamefaced way. "In a company of three, one must be _de trop_. I only hope it won't be me," she said. She was such a nice little woman! With anyone else he might have thought it "good cheek" to imagine it possible his wife or he could be _de trop_ in their own house. "What talks we'll have!" she went on. "Do you remember when Luce was ill we laughed so loud at some ridiculous thing you said when we were going up to her room that the horrid nurse came out and was rude, and asked us to be quiet?" Everard remembered the occasion with resentment. It was he who had made the witty remark, certainly, but it had been Vera who had boisterously laughed. "I never laugh, at home," she told him. "And if Fred does, I am ready to fly. I can't bear any sudden noise. Luce is going to have nurse take the babies always down the back stairs, for fear I should hear them as they come out and in. She has given orders they're not to come into this part of the house at all while I'm here." "Of course not," Everard said. But he thought of his little Billy, who was two years old, and who was allowed to spend half an hour with his father twice each day. His son was very near to his heart. He wondered how he should make up to Billy for those lost half-hours. "It is delightful!" Vera said. "I think I should like to lie here for ever, only the firelight to see by, and you sitting just there to talk to me." "We mustn't talk if it hurts your head," Everard said, with tender caution. "Well, you to sit there and keep silence, then," she amended. The divan was not very comfortable. He could not echo her wish that he should sit so, for ever, silent. "How is the poor head to-day?" he asked. "It is like fire," she told him. "Feel." She hitched herself upward, leant on her elbow, and stretched her neck forward, bringing her face within easy distance of his own. What could he do but kiss her forehead? He had a very gay look when he burst in upon his wife, who was dressing for dinner. "So you got her here?" he said. "Isn't that giving you a lot of trouble, Luce?" "We mustn't think of the trouble," Lucilla told him. "I shall not be able to be with her always, but fortunately you and she get on so well----" "Oh, I daresay I can find time to sit with her, now and then, if that's all you want me to do," he acquiesced, looking down his nose. "She seems really sadly," Lucilla told him. "Her head is bad, and her nerves--she's all nerves! Then, she has a sort of seizure, now and then----" "Heavens!" "Yes. She suddenly becomes, she says, rigid. Can't move hand or foot." "I say, that must be bad. And what do we do then, Luce?"