Waiters had pushed up two chairs, and Elaine seated herself. She said to Joe: “Go over and explain to them that we have unexpectedly met some old friends. We’ll be with them in five minutes.” Joe marched off, rubbing his upper lip. The eyes of everybody in the vicinity were addressed to their table, which was rather cruel on Frances Mary and Wilfred in their undistinguished attire. Elaine, of course, was oblivious. She addressed herself to Frances Mary. “My husband and yours have been acquainted for many years.” “Yes, Wilfred has spoken of it,” said Frances Mary. In this opening, Elaine betrayed herself to be not so candid as she appeared. She had apprehended Frances Mary’s antagonism, and the latter had instantly perceived it. There was nothing gauche about Frances Mary, only the glassiness of her eyes warned Wilfred of jarring voices within. He was painfully aware of the worn lining of his wife’s coat over the back of the chair. Joe would mark that when he came back. Why had he ever brought her here? They did not belong to it. Wilfred’s sympathies were all on the side of Fanny—well, his main sympathies, the outside part of him; the sprite was for Elaine, because Fanny had intrenched herself, whereas Elaine was skirmishing pluckily in the open. Elaine was momentarily at a loss. It must have occurred to her to wonder why she had insisted on sitting down. Like most impulses, it would not bear a critical examination. Wilfred’s heart went out to her; it had been a generous impulse. It was not often that she troubled to come out of her shell like this. It was Fanny who played the grudging part. Well, there Elaine was. She tried again. “You have several children, haven’t you? Somebody told me.” “Three,” said Frances Mary. “Two girls and a boy.” “I envy you,” said Elaine. “I have only one little boy. So bad for a child not to have any brothers and sisters.” “Yes,” said Frances Mary politely. She looked down in her plate. The question was between them, large, unspoken: Well, why don’t you give him some? Elaine turned to Wilfred. “How does the writing go?” she asked in her whole-hearted way. Wilfred, thinking of Frances Mary, shivered for the speaker. What a false note to issue from the ringing Elaine! Once she stepped out of her charmed circle, she was but mortal clay. It endeared her to him. “No better nor worse than usual,” he said, smiling unhappily. What _could_ one answer to such a question? “I haven’t come across your name lately,” said Elaine, meaning well. This remark made the silent Fanny savage. Wilfred made haste to answer, lightly: “You wouldn’t. There are so many underground ways of making one’s living by the pen.” From his wife’s somber glance he gathered that this had not helped him with _her_. Oh dear! Oh dear! he thought; why must everybody have so many corns to get trodden on!