His wife, who had just put their baby daughter to bed, was sitting in the parlour darning his socks. She looked up--surely her forehead was rather like a knee! “You wear your socks properly, Harold,” she said; “it’s all I can do to mend this pair.” Her eyes were china-blue, round like saucers; her voice had the monotony of one brought up to minimise emotion. A farmer’s daughter, young Mellesh had become engaged to her during a holiday in Somerset. Pale himself, from office and the heat, he thought how pale she looked. “The heat’s dreadful, isn’t it?” she said. “Sometimes I wish we’d never had baby. It does tie you in the evenings. I _am_ looking forward to Whitsuntide, that I am.” Young Mellesh, tall and straggly, bent over and kissed her forehead. How on earth to let her know that he had ‘blewed’ their holiday? He was realising that he had done an awful thing. Perhaps--oh! surely--she would understand how he couldn’t sit and see that girl ‘jugged’ before his eyes for want of it! But not until the end of their small supper did he say abruptly: “I got quite upset this morning, Alice. Had to go down to the police court about that car smash I told you of, and afterwards I saw them run in a lot of those Piccadilly girls. It fair sickened me to see the way they treat them.” His wife looked up; her face was childlike. “Why, what do they do to them?” “Quod them for speakin’ to men in the street.” “I s’pose they’re up to no good.” Irritated by the matter-of-factness in her voice, he went on: “They speak to ’em as if they were dirt.” “Well, aren’t they?” “They may be a loose lot, but so are the men.” “Men wouldn’t be so loose if they weren’t there.” “I suppose it’s what you call a vicious circle;” and, pleased with his play on words, he added: “One or two of them were pretty.” His wife smiled; her smile had a natural teasing quality. “They treat _them_ better, I suppose?” That was jolly cynical! and he blurted out: “One, quite young, never there before, they gave her a fortnight just because she hadn’t any money--I couldn’t stick it; I paid her fine.” There was sweat on his forehead. His wife’s face had gone quite pink. “You paid? How much?” He was on the point of saying: ‘Ten shillings.’ But something in his soul revolted. “Regular pill--two pound ten;” and he thought glumly: ‘Oh! what a fool I’ve been!’ He did wish Alice wouldn’t open her mouth like that, when nothing was coming out--made her look so silly! Her face puckered suddenly, then became quite blank; he was moved as if he had hit or pinched her. “Awfully sorry, Alice,” he muttered, “never meant to--she--she cried.” “Course she cried! You fool, Harold!” He got up, very much disturbed. “Well, and what would _you_ have done?” “Me? Let her stew in her own juice, of course. It wasn’t your affair.”