In the withdrawing-room of a small house near Kew Gardens, Mrs. Philip Raider was gazing at a piece of pinkish paper in her hand, as if it had been one of those spiders of which she had so constitutional a horror. Opposite her chair her son had risen; and against the wall her daughter had ceased suddenly to play Brahms’ Variations on a theme by Haydn. “He says to-night!” The girl dropped her hands from the keys. “To-night? I thought it was next month. Just like father--without a word of warning!” The son mechanically took out his pipe, and began polishing its bowl. He was fresh-faced, fair, with a small head. “Why didn’t he tell us to meet him in London? He must know we’ve got to come to an arrangement.” The daughter, too, got up, leaning against the piano--a slight figure, with bushy, dark, short hair. “What are we to do, Mother?” “Jack must go round, and put Mabel and Roderick off for this evening.” “Yes, and what then, if he’s going to stay here? Does he know that I’m engaged, and Beryl too?” “I think I told him in my last letter.” “What are _you_ going to do, Mother?” “It’s come so suddenly--I don’t know.” “It’s indecent!” said the boy violently. His sister picked up the dropped telegram. “‘Earl’s Court, five four.’ He may be here any minute. Jack, do hurry up! Doesn’t he _realise_ that nobody knows, down here?” Mrs. Raider turned to the fire. “Your father will only have realised his own feelings.” “Well, he’s got to begin with others. I’ll have to make him----!” “Dr. Raider, ma’am.” Late--299 stood, smiling, in front of the door which the maid had closed behind him. “Well, Bertha! Ah, Beryl! Well, Jack!” His daughter alone replied. “_Well_, Father, you might have let us know beforehand!” Late--299 looked from one face to the other. “Never tell children they’re going to have a powder. How are you all?” “Perfectly well, thank you. How are you?” “Never better. Healthy life--prison!” As if walking in her sleep Mrs. Raider came across the room. She put out her hand with a groping gesture. Late--299 did not take it. “Rather nice here,” he said. “Can I have a wash?” “Jack, show your father the lavatory.” “The bathroom, please.” The son crossed from the window, glanced at his father’s smiling face, and led the way. Mrs. Raider, thin, pale, dark, spoke first. “Poor Philip!” “Oh, Mother! It’s impossible to pity father; it always was. Except for his moustache being gone, I don’t see much change anyway. It’s you I pity. He simply can’t stay here. Why, everybody thinks you’re a widow.” “People generally know more than they seem to, Beryl.” “Nobody’s ever given us a hint. Why couldn’t he have consulted us?” “We must think of _him_.” “He didn’t think of us when he did that horrible thing. And it was so gratuitous, unless----! Mother, sometimes I’ve thought he had to do it; that he was her--her lover as well as her doctor!” Mrs. Raider shook her head.