For the first time in her life Bertha Young desired her husband. Oh, she’d loved him—she’d been in love with him, of course, in every other way, but just not in that way. And, equally, of course, she’d understood that he was different. They’d discussed it so often. It had worried her dreadfully at first to find that she was so cold, but after a time it had not seemed to matter. They were so frank with each other—such good pals. That was the best of being modern. But now—ardently! ardently! The word ached in her ardent body! Was this what that feeling of bliss had been leading up to? But then then—— “My dear,” said Mrs. Norman Knight, “you know our shame. We are the victims of time and train. We live in Hampstead. It’s been so nice.” “I’ll come with you into the hall,” said Bertha. “I loved having you. But you must not miss the last train. That’s so awful, isn’t it?” “Have a whisky, Knight, before you go?” called Harry. “No, thanks, old chap.” Bertha squeezed his hand for that as she shook it. “Good night, good-bye,” she cried from the top step, feeling that this self of hers was taking leave of them for ever. When she got back into the drawing-room the others were on the move. “. . . Then you can come part of the way in my taxi.” “I shall be _so_ thankful _not_ to have to face _another_ drive _alone_ after my _dreadful_ experience.” “You can get a taxi at the rank just at the end of the street. You won’t have to walk more than a few yards.” “That’s a comfort. I’ll go and put on my coat.” Miss Fulton moved towards the hall and Bertha was following when Harry almost pushed past. “Let me help you.” Bertha knew that he was repenting his rudeness—she let him go. What a boy he was in some ways—so impulsive—so—simple. And Eddie and she were left by the fire. “I _wonder_ if you have seen Bilks’ _new_ poem called _Table d’Hôte_,” said Eddie softly. “It’s _so_ wonderful. In the last Anthology. Have you got a copy? I’d _so_ like to _show_ it to you. It begins with an _incredibly_ beautiful line: ‘Why Must it Always be Tomato Soup?’” “Yes,” said Bertha. And she moved noiselessly to a table opposite the drawing-room door and Eddie glided noiselessly after her. She picked up the little book and gave it to him; they had not made a sound. While he looked it up she turned her head towards the hall. And she saw . . . Harry with Miss Fulton’s coat in his arms and Miss Fulton with her back turned to him and her head bent. He tossed the coat away, put his hands on her shoulders and turned her violently to him. His lips said: “I adore you,” and Miss Fulton laid her moonbeam fingers on his cheeks and smiled her sleepy smile. Harry’s nostrils quivered; his lips curled back in a hideous grin while he whispered: “To-morrow,” and with her eyelids Miss Fulton said: “Yes.” “Here it is,” said Eddie. “‘Why Must it Always be Tomato Soup?’ It’s so _deeply_ true, don’t you feel? Tomato soup is so _dreadfully_ eternal.”