They clamped their thoughts to that man Martin with some relief. In Matthew’s car, as they slid and skidded along through the streets, “It seems such rot--this fuss about moods--when there are people around here by the thousands with actual troubles, hunger, cold and sickness.” That was Dick. It expressed his feeling for reality. “Some people live by moods--by the spirit,” answered Matthew. Matthew went home. Fliss was dining out and had expressly excluded him from the party, characterizing it as a “bunch that would bore you to death. Eat at the club and I’ll let the maids go out. Come and pick me up if you like. I’ll say you’re working.” So Matthew went through the silent house, so perfectly in order, so dimly lit, up to the third floor. In his own rooms a sense of ease and security seemed to envelop him. He lit the small fire that was always laid in readiness for him and settled himself before it comfortably with his pipe. He had forgotten or refused to consider dinner. The room became very quiet, the crackle of the fire only bringing out the stillness and mystery of thought. He had been there a couple of hours when there was a knock on the door, and before he could rise to open it, his wife pushed it open and stood on the threshold, her golden evening cloak wrapped around her, a few snowflakes clinging to her uncovered hair. “Where did you drop from? I was going to come for you later.” “I left after dinner, and, finding you were home, I took liberties with your solitude. Can I sit down in the holy place?” Her gayety did not ring true. Matthew pushed a chair up to the fire and she sat down in it. Matthew watched her, sparkling even in the firelight. “Such a fool bunch,” sighed Fliss. “Not yearning for intellectual heights are you, Fliss?” asked her husband lightly. She flushed a little and moved back out of the ring of firelight. “It would be absurd, wouldn’t it?” “Your going in for the intellectual heights? I wouldn’t say absurd, but a bit out of your line, perhaps.” “Out of my line.” “Feeling a little down?” “Bored.” “We’ll have to get up some excitement,” said Matthew kindly. She winced. “Don’t treat me as if I were a three-year-old.” “I couldn’t. I treat you as if you were what you are--a charming woman.” “You think I’m an awful fool, don’t you?” He went over to her and leaned over the back of her chair, pushing her hair back from her forehead. “Pretty Fliss!” She jumped up, away from his touch. “That’s it! That’s all of it. Pretty Fliss! I might be a puppy; I might be an idiot.” Matthew waited for her to go on, and after a minute she did. “I get so tired of--of being a jazzer--of having you think I’m just a jazzer. I think a lot of things, truly I do, Matthew,” she added, naïvely. “Of course you do.” “Don’t say it like that--soothingly. Say it as if you meant it.” “Of course you do,” said Matthew in heavy, mock seriousness.