Accordingly, Mrs. Biddlecombe came to the Dream Cottage, and was installed comfortably in the guest chamber. As time passed, the good lady grew to like her room so well that she refused to leave it. She became, in short, bedridden, and increasingly dependent upon Susan, who never failed her. Quinney began to spend his evenings away from home. He joined a club which met bi-weekly in a snug room at the Mitre. Susan encouraged him to join his friends, because she was terrified lest he should be bored at home. Also, his wanderings in search of furniture and china became more extended, and when he returned triumphant, exulting in wonderful bargains, she found it increasingly difficult to share his enthusiasm, and to rejoice with him over a prosperity which seemed to be driving them farther apart. She told herself, on her knees, that she was a wicked, ungrateful woman. Indeed, she was amazed at her own emotions, unable to analyse them, conscious only that she was torn in two by circumstance and consequence. Her Joe loved her faithfully; he grudged her nothing; he worked hard for her and his child; he had none of the vices common to the husbands of many women she knew; he was almost always in high health and spirits. And Posy? What a darling! No cause for anxiety there. A sweet sprite, budding rapidly into a pretty, intelligent girl. And she herself? Healthy, the mistress of a charming little house filled with beautiful things, but not happy. Why—why—why? Civil war raged beneath her placid bosom. War to the knife between conjugal and maternal instincts. Her duty to child and mother stood between what she desired more passionately than anything else—a renewal of intimate intercourse with a husband who was drifting out of her life, leaving her stranded upon barren rocks. She found herself wondering whether his feeling for her was waxing lukewarm. She would cheerfully have undergone the cruellest pangs to experience once more the ineffable bliss of kissing tears from his eyes, of hearing his voice break when he whispered her name, of knowing that he suffered abominably because she suffered. She began to pray for something to break the deadly monotony of her life. And her prayers were answered. *II* Quinney was returning one night from the club soberly conscious that he had slightly exceeded his usual allowance of port wine. He was in that mellow frame of mind, far removed from intoxication, which dwells complacently upon the present without any qualms as to the future. For instance, despite the extra glass or two, he knew that he would awaken the next morning with a clear brain and a body fit to cope with any imposed task. In fine, he was sober enough to congratulate himself upon the self-control which had refused further indulgence, and at the same time righteously glad that he had not drunk less. The colour of the good wine encarmined his thoughts, the bottled sunshine irradiated his soul.