Ever since he was so high Valentine would always eat a fruit-salad according to certain laws of precedence. Not for worlds would he have admitted it, but that is how it was. He liked the chunks of pineapple best, so he kept the chunks of pineapple to the last. Strawberries he liked next best, if they weren’t too sloppy, so they came one but last. As for grapes in a fruit salad, they are slippery and sour, and Valentine thought it was no fit place for them. After strawberries, he was partial to cherries. While first of all he would demolish the inevitable bits of banana. Cream he never took with a fruit-salad. It will therefore be seen that, as he was then only at the beginning of the cherry stratum, the fruit-salad future of Valentine Vernon Chambers was one of exceptional promise. But it was not to be. Even as Valerest spoke, brightly, he couldn’t help but cast one furtive look at the chunks of pineapple. Nor were the strawberries sloppy. But queer depths were moving in him that evening. From the chunks of pineapple he looked across the table at his wife, and Valerest saw that his blue eyes were dark, and she was afraid, but did she look afraid? Valerest, Oh, Valerest! “Yap!” said Mr. Tuppy. “There, there!” said Valerest, and she kissed Mr. Tuppy, and Mr. Tuppy loved it. “By Heaven, that dog!” snapped Valentine. Valerest said: “That’s it! Vent your bad-temper on poor little Mr. Tuppy!” Valentine looked at Valerest. “I see,” said Valentine quietly. Very quietly. “Oh, I see!” And worse. Much worse. Very quietly. “I suppose you think,” said Valerest, “that because I’m your wife you can say anything you like to me. You’re wrong.” “I think,” said Valentine, “that because you’re my wife you ought to behave like my wife. And I’m right.” And then he left the room. And then he left the house. And then the house was very still. Valerest, sitting very straight in her chair, heard the front-door slam. She listened. Through the open window behind her came the sound of manly footsteps marching away down South Street. She listened. Away the footsteps marched, away. Then a taxi screamed, and the incident of the manly footsteps was closed forever. “Well, that’s that!” said Valerest. “Yap!” said Mr. Tuppy. “Mother’s rabbit!” said Valerest absently. “Mr. Tuppy,” said Valerest suddenly, “this can’t go on. You know, this can’t go on.” “Yap!” said Mr. Tuppy. “I’m not a chattel,” said Valerest. “To be used just as a man likes. I will not be a chattel.” The pretty maid came in. Valerest said: “Come along, Mr. Tuppy. I’ve got a headache. Bed.” II