Laura, sitting in the parlour below, her eyes on a book, her ears a-prick at every sound, gave a sigh of relief as she heard his tread and the thud of his baggage on the floor. He had gone to his packing ... he would come soon now ... a matter of moments ... for he always packed as if he were cocking hay.... Ah—she thought so ... his door was opening ... he was coming downstairs.... She could afford at last to ignore the clock—that stolid thief who had impoverished her, filching one by one twenty minutes of the hoarded sixty that were hers. He paused in the hall long enough to give her a pang. He was not going out?—to the stables? Yet she was able to look up indifferently when he opened—at last—the parlour door, and came in. “Finished?” She smiled at him pleasantly with an air of temporarily relinquishing her book, of being very ready to return to it though, if he did not want to talk. She had been well drilled. However, he was communicative. “There was hardly anything—I’m not taking much. Oh, by the way—I’ve left some boots—to be re-soled—in trees—you might tell Mother. At least——” “Oh, I’ll see to it,” said Laura easily. “Heeled too?” “I think so. Oh—and there are some things—in the wardrobe—want seeing to—want cleaning.” He elaborated his directions. A pause ensued, the inane pause that so often preludes a leave-taking. He walked about the room. She read her book. The clock ticked between them, saying ‘your turn—your turn,’ and each waited for the other to speak. Justin bethought himself first. “I say—what about the trap? Has somebody told Robert?” Laura nodded. “I told him. Four o’clock. Time enough?” “Heaps. You’re fast.” He tinkered with the hands: and so—having arrived at the hearth-rug and the second armchair—sat down. She gave him a quick little glance of delight. He was making himself comfortable!... He had crossed his hands under his head: was leaning back: was looking at her.... That meant that he was ready to talk.... She leant back in her turn, her book closed over her hand. “When’s the next leave, Justin?” “Lord knows!” he laughed. “You ought to have more sense, Laura. That’s the sort of insatiable thing Mother says.” Laura laughed too, a touch of vexed colour in her cheeks. She did not often trip. But he continued, always unconscious— “Isn’t Mother delicious about this war?—this infamous conspiracy of a Europe that ought to know better against my peace and person? You know—I never knew before what claws Mother had. The bloodthirsty things she says! And means too—bless her! Oh, it’s all very well to laugh, Laura! That’s just what Mother complains of. People don’t realize how serious things are. A bullet might hit me!” He chuckled over his joke. Laura’s laughter was an excellent imitation of the real thing. He grew sober again. “I say—I suppose influenza always does pull people down so? She doesn’t look at all fit.” “It’s not the influenza. It’s the war. It’s the strain—the sitting still——” she broke off.