"No, they won't," she said. "You'll stay at home with me, and take me to the St. James's. You can easily put off your man at the club." She looked him full in the eyes. Colour rose to his face and then faded away. "I'm sorry, my dear, but that's impossible." "It isn't impossible--you mean you don't want to do it. ... Oh, do please--please, Nigel!" She came towards him and played with his tie--the trick of hers that he hated most. She mistook his silence, which was hesitation as to what plan to adopt, for vacillation, and thought she was going to win. ... "Oh, 'oo will, 'oo will!" she exclaimed, with a rather sickly imitation of a spoilt child, with her head on one side. It was a pose that did not suit her in any way. He drew back; the shiny red hair gave him a feeling of positive nausea. She was attempting to defeat him--she was trying to be coquettish--poor thing! ... She suspected something; she hadn't put off her mother for nothing. ... He was going to the Russian Ballet with Bertha--how could he leave Bertha in the lurch? With Madeline and Rupert, too--what harm was there in it? (The fact that he heartily wished there _was_ had really nothing to do with the point.) Husbands and wives usually know when opposition is useless. Mary privately gave it up when she heard Nigel speak firmly and quickly--not angrily. "I've made the arrangement now, and I can't back out." "And what about me?" she said, in a shrill voice. He went out of the room hastily, saying: "I can't help it now; if you alter your arrangements at the last minute--stop at home and read a book, or take some friend to the St. James's." He ran upstairs like a hunted hare; he was afraid of being late. He had got his table at the Carlton. Left alone in the boudoir, a terrible expression came over Mary's face. She said to herself quite loudly: "He is not going to the club; he'd give it up if he were. It's something about that woman. ..." A wave of hysteria came over her, also a half-hearted hope of succeeding still by a new kind of scene. ... There were two large china pots on the mantelpiece; she threw them, first one, then the other, at the half-open door, smashing them to atoms. Excited at her own violence, she ran upstairs screaming, regardless of appearance: "You sha'n't go! You sha'n't go! I hate you. I'll kill myself. Oh--oh--oh! Nigel! Nigel!" * * * * * At eight to the minute Nigel in the Palm Court received Bertha Kellynch dressed in black, Madeline in white, and Rupert Denison with a little mauve orchid in his buttonhole.