“I see,” said Mrs. Below. “And what if I need you? Supposing I’m taken ill, or something like that.” She silenced his protest with a shrug. “You see? Your convenience again, as opposed to mine. Instinctively, yours comes first. Never mind. For God’s sake don’t let’s discuss it. For the third and last time—what are you going to do about your dress?” “I’ll buy one,” said Peregrine wildly. Instantly the merciless point rose to his throat. “Where?” “Oh, I’ll find some place.” “Rot!” The word left her mouth like the crack of a whip. Mrs. Carey Below was getting angry. “This isn’t Paris. You can’t buy dominoes like jujubes. They don’t sell them by the pound.” “I know,” said Peregrine quietly. “I’m very sorry, dear. If you could spare me Pickford for half an hour . . .” “I must. You’ve forced my hand. _My_ dress must go by the board, while yours is made.” She raised her voice. “Pickford!” The bedroom door opened, and the maid came in. “Did you call, madam?” “Mr. Below has nothing to wear to-night. He will get the material, and you must make him a dress. How many yards do you want?” Pickford considered. Then— “Six, madam, single width, or three double.” Her mistress addressed Peregrine. “D’you hear?” she demanded. “Yes, but I don’t understand. What is a single width?” “They’ll know in the shop.” “All right,” said Peregrine. “What’s the stuff called?” Humanity was insisting that Pickford should intervene. “I can easily go, madam. Now that I’ve done your dress——” “That will do,” said her mistress, bristling. Pickford withdrew. As the door closed— “She’s gone,” said Mrs. Below. “You can take off that martyred air. Of course it’s a wonderful card to have up one’s sleeve—if one wants to get off with servants. They love it.” Her husband ignored the insult. “What stuff shall I get?” he said. “Any damned stuff,” said his wife. “D’you want me to dry-nurse you? I shouldn’t say you want it for a domino, or they’ll think you’re out of your mind. Say you want it for a shroud—they’ll believe that. . . . Just as a matter of interest, can you look cheerful? Or have you lost the knack?” “I’ve lost the knack,” said Peregrine. “Our marriage has been a failure, and——” “Whose fault is that?” Peregrine shrugged his shoulders and rose to his feet. “Mine, I suppose,” he said, with a ghost of a laugh. “Oh, you darling,” said his wife. Peregrine shuddered. “I wish you wouldn’t talk like that, Marion.” His wife stared. “You wish I wouldn’t—what do you mean?” Peregrine stood silent. “You’d better pull yourself together, hadn’t you?” Peregrine sought the door. “I’ll go and get the stuff,” he said shakily.