He perceived and regretted his incaution. It was indiscreet to say that his object was to urge Rupert to Staithley when that coming could only mean Gertrude’s going from the Hall. “Oh,” he said, “I’ve to send on a letter which will amuse him.” He had decided that the only use of that letter was humorous; it was a jest, questionable in taste but illustrative of the times and therefore to be mentioned in the family and preserved as a curiosity amongst the papers of the firm. And if it were going to be a family diversion, who had better right than William’s wife to be the first to enjoy it with him? She had unreal grievances enough without his adding to them the real grievance of his denying her the right to laugh at those harlequin accountants who so grotesquely misapprehended Hepplestall’s. “This is the letter,” he said, passing it across to her, expecting, actually, that she would smile. She did not smile. “I see,” she said, and, in fact, saw very well. Women’s incomprehension of business has been exaggerated. “Why, to arrive at the figure they ask for would take weeks of work.” “I got at it roughly in half an hour this morning,” he boasted. “And sent it to them?” she asked quickly. “Oh dear, no. I was only doing it as a matter of curiosity. If I sent them my result, I should frighten them.” “They must expect something big, though. Shan’t you reply at all or are you consulting Rupert first?” “I’d hardly say ‘consult,’” he said. “I’m sending it him as I show it you--as a joke. I shall point out to him, as a form, that he and I between us have a controlling share interest. I shall jest about our powers. It’s an opportunity of making Rupert awake to his responsibilities.” “Yes,” said Gertrude, “I see. And you know best, dear.” She was dangerously uncombative, arranging her mental notes that, though he derided the letter, he had prepared an estimate and that he was writing to Rupert who, with William, could take decisive action. By way purely of showing him how little seriously she took it, she changed the subject. “I heard from Connie Duxbury this morning,” she said. “Not the most desirable of your acquaintances, I think,” said William. “Oh, my dear. Sir Ralph’s a member of Parliament now.” “It isn’t a certificate of respectability.” She looked thoughtfully at him, as he rose and went into the library to write to Rupert, with the careful, anxious gaze of a wife who sees in her husband the symptoms of ill-health. She wished to leave Staithley for her own sake, but decidedly it was for William’s sake as well. In Manchester, if he had not been advanced, if (for instance) his play at Bridge was circumspect while hers was dashing, he had been broadminded. She remembered that he had spoken of Sir Ralph as a profiteer, but had admitted that most of their friends were profiteers. Staithley, already, was narrowing William, in months. What would it not do for him in years? She must get him out of Staithley before it was too late.