"Bertha, I give you my word that she'll be terribly disappointed and offended if you don't. And"--he waited a moment--"I hardly know how to explain--it'll do me harm if you don't come--you and Percy. I can't exactly explain. Do me this good turn, Bertha. A special favour, won't you?" He was artfully trying to suggest what he supposed to be the exact contrary to the fact. He knew Mary would be wild with joy if Bertha did not come, though he had no idea how extremely astonished and furious she would be if she should arrive, considering she had accepted. Of course in reality Mary thought nothing of the acceptance. She was both certain and determined that her "door would not be darkened" by Bertha's presence. Bertha had not intended to go since she saw Percy's pleasure and relief at the cessation of the intimacy. But now? After all, Percy couldn't mind going in with her for a few minutes if she begged him. "If you tell me it'll do you a good turn, Nigel--but I don't understand!" "Do you wish me to explain?" "No, I don't. I'll take your word. But all the more I don't want you to be always calling. I'm afraid Mary doesn't like me." "It isn't that exactly." Bertha thought of her own happiness with Percy. Her warm, kind heart made her say gently: "Nigel, I hope you're nice and considerate to Mary? You make her happy?" "Doesn't this look like it?" he answered. "She'll be in a state if you don't turn up." He sighed. "I've never said a word about it, but she's rather trying and tiresome if you want to know." "Then I'm very, very sorry for her," said Bertha, "and you can't do enough for her. ... Why, with those lovely children I'm sure she'd be ideally happy if----" "Oh, you think, of course, it's my fault. It never occurs to you whether I'm happy!" A look from her which she tried to repress reminded him of his deliberate choice. He thought the time had come to make her a little sorry for him, knowing her extreme tenderness of heart. He spoke in a lower voice, and looked away. "If I'm sometimes a bit miserable, it serves me right." "Be good to her," said Bertha. "I'll do anything on earth you'll tell me." "What are the children's names?" "Nigel and Marjorie." "Darling pets, I suppose?" "Isn't it extraordinary, Bertha," he said. "I've no right to say it to you, but that's my great trouble." "What?" "She doesn't care much about them." "I don't believe it," said Bertha, shaking her head. "It's you who are mistaken." "Am I?" "Nigel, remember, I know you pretty well." "And you think I'm trying to make you sorry for me?" "I won't say that. But you ought to be happy, and so ought your wife." He spoke in a different tone, with his usual cheery smile. "Well, if you will grace our entertainment, I promise we will be happy. Do come, Bertha!" He was taking all this trouble simply so as not to have a boring evening at his own home!