Giles was thirty, and looked a young twenty-six. Tall, fair, handsome, lazy-eyed, he did everything well. The way in which he made war brought him a V.C. The way in which he made love won him his wife. At the Marlborough he was universally liked. In certain cabmen’s shelters he was adored. He had, I suppose, the secret of adaptability. His laugh was infectious; his turn-out, above reproach. His manners would have made any man. Both had a keen sense of humour, and neither was ever dull. They went everywhere, and everywhere their coming was awaited and their going deplored. They had been individually invaluable: as a combination they were unique. What made them so excellent was their mutual devotion. Of this they offered no evidence, but it was obvious as the day. Had Society paraded in the Park, by common consent Giles and Katharine would have been led at the head of the column, like regimental goats. For the second year in succession they were the Season’s pets. But now an east wind had arisen out of a clear sky. Though no one else knew it, it had cursed the twain steadily for more than three months. The two peace-loving hearts found themselves constantly at war. Worse. The very qualities which should have pacified seemed monstrously to provoke. The position had become unbearable. * * * * * An hour had gone by. As Katharine entered the dining-room, her husband looked up from his eggs. “Forsyth,” he said, “will see us at twelve o’clock. Meanwhile”—he tapped a volume—“this little Know All says that we ought to have trustees.” “What of?” said his wife. “Heaven knows,” said Giles. “As far as I can gather, they’ld be a sort of bufferee. Supposing you wanted to come and scratch me—well, you’ld have to scratch the trustee first. And if I found you were pledging my credit——” “But I shall,” said Katharine. “Why shouldn’t I? I’m your wife.” “Only for necessaries, dear heart. No more eighteen-penny hats.” “Is that the law?” said Mrs. Festival blankly. “Approximately. But don’t worry. You’ll have plenty to pay for them with. I can’t endow you with all my worldly goods, but you shall have a fair two-thirds.” “Half,” said Katharine, crossing to the sideboard. “Fair do’s, old fellow. And you must have half mine.” Captain Festival frowned. “My dear,” he said shortly, “don’t dither. I buy a dress-suit a year and don’t pay for it. If I did, it’ld be about a pony.” He paused significantly. “If an eighteen-penny hat and a half costs the same as a gent’s dress-suit, how many evening frocks go to the Season?” Abstractedly Katharine helped herself to kedjeree. As she returned to the table— “I don’t care,” she said slowly; “I won’t take more than my share. What shall we do about the house?”