“You’re too large, Charles, and too dignified, my dear; you’d be on the Civil List before you could turn round.” Granter rose from the lacquered chair, jingling his coins. The most vivid pictures at that moment were, like a film, unrolled before his mind--of the grey sunlit river and that accosting blackguard with his twisted murky face and lips uttering hoarse sounds; of the yellow baby, and the girl’s gipsy-dark glance from behind it; of a police court, and himself standing there and letting the whole cartload of the law fall on them. He said suddenly: “I was blackmailed this afternoon on the Embankment.” She did not answer; and, turning with irritation, he saw that her fingers were in her ears. “I do wish you wouldn’t jingle your money so!” she said. Confound it! She had not heard him. “I’ve had an adventure,” he began again. “You know the flower-girl who stands at that corner in Tite Street?” “Yes; a gipsy baggage.” “H’m! Well, I bought a flower from her one day, and she told me such a pathetic story that I went to her den to see if it was true. It seemed to be, so I gave her some money, don’t you know. Then I thought I’d better see how she was spending it, so I went to see her again, don’t you know.” A faint “Oh! Charles!” caused him to hurry on. “And--what do you think--a blackguard followed me to-day and tried to blackmail me for ten pounds on the Embankment.” A sound brought his face round to attention. His wife was lying back on the cushions of her chair in paroxysms of soft laughter. It was clear to Granter, then, that what he had really been afraid of was just this. His wife would laugh at him--laugh at him slipping from the pedestal! Yes! It was that he had dreaded--not any disbelief in his fidelity. Somehow he felt too large to be laughed at. He _was_ too large! Nature had set a size beyond which husbands----! “I don’t see what there is to laugh at,” he said frigidly. “There’s no more odious crime than blackmail.” His wife was silent; tears were trickling down her cheeks. “Did you give it him?” she said in a strangled voice. “Of course not.” “What was he threatening?” “To tell you.” “But what?” “His beastly interpretation of my harmless visits.” The tears had made runlets in her powder, and he added viciously: “He doesn’t know you, of course.” His wife dabbed her eyes, and a scent of geranium arose. “It seems to me,” said Granter, “that you’d be even more amused if there _were_ something in it!” “Oh, no, Charles, but--perhaps there is.” Granter looked at her fixedly. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, there is not.” He saw her cover her lips with that rag of handkerchief, and abruptly left the room.