It was one of those days of late summer when the rain seems never ceasing, and the air is filled with the melancholy of nature, already conscious of the near decay. “I was meaning to come up to you as soon as I’d finished my pipe.” Bertha was exhausted, and, keeping silence, pressed Edward’s hand in acknowledgment of his kind intention. Presently he looked at his watch again. “Your half-hour’s nearly up. In five minutes I’m going to carry you to your room.” “Oh no, you’re not,” she replied playfully, taking his remark as humorous. “I’m going to stay till dinner.” “No, you can’t possibly. It will be very bad for you.... To please me go back to bed now.” “Well, we’ll split the difference and I’ll go after tea.” “No, you must go now.” “Why, one would think you wanted to get rid of me!” “I have to go out,” said Edward. “Oh no, you haven’t--you’re merely saying that to induce me to go upstairs. You fibber!” “Let me carry you up now, there’s a good girl.” “I won’t, I won’t, I won’t.” “I shall have to leave you alone, Bertha. I didn’t know you meant to get up to-day, and I have an engagement.” “Oh, but you can’t leave me the first time I get up. What is it? You can write a note and break it.” “I’m awfully sorry,” he replied. “But I’m afraid I can’t do that. The fact is, I saw the Miss Hancocks after church, and they said they had to walk into Tercanbury this afternoon, and as it was so wet I offered to drive them in. I’ve promised to fetch them at three.” “You’re joking,” said Bertha; her eyes had suddenly become hard, and she was breathing fast. Edward looked at her uneasily. “I didn’t know you were going to get up, or I shouldn’t have arranged to go out.” “Oh well, it doesn’t matter,” said Bertha, throwing off the momentary anger. “You can just write and say you can’t come.” “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he answered, gravely. “I’ve given my word and I can’t break it.” “Oh, but it’s infamous.” Her wrath blazed out again. “Even you can’t be so cruel as to leave me at such a time. I deserve some consideration--after all I’ve suffered. For weeks I lay at death’s door, and at last when I’m a little better and come down--thinking to give you pleasure, you’re engaged to drive the Misses Hancock into Tercanbury.” “Come, Bertha, be reasonable.” Edward condescended to expostulate with his wife, though it was not his habit to humour her extravagances. “You see it’s not my fault. Isn’t it enough for you that I’m very sorry? I shall be back in an hour. Stay here, and then we’ll spend the evening together.” “Why did you lie to me?” “I haven’t lied: I’m not given to that,” said Edward, with natural satisfaction. “You pretended it was for my health’s sake that I must go upstairs. Isn’t that a lie?” “It was for your health’s sake.” “You lie again. You wanted to get me out of the way, so that you might go to the Miss Hancocks without telling me.” “You ought to know me better than that by now.”