"I'll begin at the beginning. That's the best way, eh, old girl? I see it's staggered you as it staggered me. Woodall--you've heard me speak of Woodall, one of our travellers?--was just about to start for a long trip--New York, Chicago, then Montreal and all over Canada, California, then New Zealand; it was a fine trip, selling our Runaway two-seater. Well, when I got to our place this morning the boss sent for me at once, and told me the news about poor old Woodall--knocked down by a taxi in the street last night, and now in hospital for they don't know how long. The tickets were bought and the tour arranged, and--and--in short, you see, they'd got to pick another man at a moment's notice, to go instead. And so--" The wife leaned forward, her eyes opened wide and warily on her husband's face. Not looking at her, he rattled on: "So the boss offered it to me. You don't need telling that I accepted, do you?" She replied, "No," in a quiet voice. "I knew you'd think I ought to take it," he said, with a swift glance at her. "Of course, it mayn't be permanent, but I think it's up to me to make it so. I guess I can hold down a job of that kind as well as anyone else, if I've the chance. It's a fine chance! Do you know what it means?" She uttered a questioning sound. "Five hundred a year," he said huskily, "with a good commission and all expenses paid. The expenses are--are princely. You see, a fellow selling motors isn't like a fellow selling tea. He's got to do the splendid--get among the right people; among all sorts of people. Oh, it'll be life!" Passion was subdued again in her; it was old and drowsy and quiet. Knitting her fingers tightly round her knee, she rocked a little, and asked: "When do you start?" "Of course it's rather sudden--" "So I understood from what you said. When will it be, Osborn?" "To-morrow." She stared into his face, unbelieving. "To-morrow?" she whispered. He got up hurriedly and fumbled about the mantel-piece in a fake search for cigarettes. "You see, I've got to follow out Woodall's programme exactly; he would have started to-morrow." "How--how long will you be away?" "A year." "A year!" she half screamed. "Oh, no! no! no!" He looked at her with something of fear and something of sulkiness. He was on the defensive, willing to be very kind, but resolute not to be nagged nor argued with. "Don't," he protested, "don't take it like that." "I'm sorry, dear," she said more quietly. "It hit me, rather. To-morrow is so soon, and a year is such a long, long time." "Not so very. A year's nothing. Besides, I've got to go; it's no use making a fuss, is it?" "I won't make a fuss." "There'll be a good deal to do. I wanted you to look over my things to-night. I'll help you carry them in here, shall I?"