"You're five minutes late," she said abruptly, as he came in. She always spoke abruptly, even when she wanted to be most amiable. He was determined not to be bad-tempered, and smiled good-naturedly. "Am I? So sorry." He was very quick and rapid in every word and movement, but soft and suave--never blunt, as she was. "Where have you been?" "I went to look at those pictures in Bond Street," he replied, without a moment's hesitation. He had come straight from seeing Bertha--on the subject of Madeline and Rupert--but he never thought of telling her that. "Oh! Why didn't you take _me_?" "I really don't know. I didn't think of it, I suppose. We'll go another day." He sat down opposite her and began to smoke a cigarette, having permission always. She sat staring at him with clasped hands and eager eyes. Bertha's description of her as having flat red hair, a receding chin and long ear-rings was impressionistically accurate. It was what one noticed most. Mrs. Hillier was plain, and not at all pleasant-looking, though she had a pretty figure, looked young, and might have been made something of if she had had charm. There was something eager, sharp and yet depressed about her, that might well be irritating. She got up and came and stood next to Nigel; playing with his tie, a little trick which nearly drove him mad, but he was determined to hide it. When he couldn't bear it any longer he said: "That will do, dear." She moved away. "How do you mean 'that will do'?" "Nothing; only don't fidget." "You're nervous, Nigel. You are always telling me not to fidget." "Am I? Sorry. Where are the children?" "Never mind the children for a minute. They're out with Mademoiselle." "Seen much of them to-day?" "They came in to lunch. No, I have _not_, as a matter of fact. Do you expect me to spend my whole time with children of eight and nine?" He didn't answer, but it was exactly what he really did expect, and would have thought perfectly natural and suitable. "Some women," continued Mary, "seem to care a great deal more for their children than they do for their husbands. I'm _not_ like that--I don't pretend to be." Nigel already knew this, to his great regret. "I care more for you than I do for the children," she repeated. "Yes." "What do you mean by 'Yes'?" "I was assenting: that's all. I meant--that you've told me all this before, my dear. Haven't you?" "Do you object? Do you _mind_ my caring more for you than for the children?" "If I object to anything it's only to your repeating yourself. I mean--we've had all this; haven't we?" "Nigel, are you trying to quarrel with me for loving you better than the children?" Nigel turned pale with irritation but controlled himself and stood up and looked out of the window. "Not in the least. It's most flattering. I only don't want to be told it every time I see you. ... I mean that of course I should think it perfectly natural if you were fond of the children too."