The day’s work completed, he walked home in sober thought. It was a pleasant afternoon in May, but he was too preoccupied to pay any heed to the weather, and, after informing a man who stopped him to tell him that he had lost a wife, six children, and a right leg, that it was just five minutes past six, resumed his way with a hazy idea of having been useful to a fellow-creature. He brightened a little as he left the bustle of the town behind, and from sheer force of habit glanced at the trim front-gardens as he passed. The cloud lifted still more as he reached his own garden and mentally compared his flowers with those he had just passed. His daughter was out, and tea for one was laid in the front room. He drew his chair to the table, and taking up the tea-pot, which the maid had just brought in, poured himself out a cup of tea. He looked round the comfortable room with pleasure. After all, nobody could take that from him. He stirred his tea and had just raised the cup to his lips when he set it down untasted and sat staring blankly before him. A low rumble of voices from the kitchen fell unpleasantly on his ear; and his daughter Joan had left instructions too specific to be misunderstood as to his behaviour in the event of Rosa entertaining male company during her absence. He coughed twice, loudly, and was glad to note the disappearance of the rumble. Pleased with his success he coughed a third time, a sonorous cough charged with importance. A whispered rumble, possibly a suggestion of withdrawal, came from the kitchen. “Only his tea gone the wrong way,” he heard, reassuringly, from Rosa. The rumble, thus encouraged, deepened again. It became confident and was heard to laugh. Mr. Hartley rose and, standing on the hearthrug with legs apart, resolved to play the man. He leaned over and rang the bell. The voices stopped. Then he heard Rosa say, “Not him! you stay where you are.” She came slowly in response to the bell, and thrusting a yellow head in at the door gazed at him inquiringly. “I—I want a little more hot water,” said her master, mildly. “More?” repeated Rosa. “Why, I brought you over a pint.” “I want some more,” said Mr. Hartley. Then a bright thought struck him. “I am expecting Miss Joan home every minute,” he added, significantly. Rosa tossed her head. “She ain’t coming home till nine,” she remarked, “so if it’s only for her you want the hot water, you won’t want it.” “Very good,” said her master, with an attempt at dignity; “you can go.” Rosa went, whistling. Mr. Hartley, feeling that he had done all that could be expected of a man, sat down and resumed his tea. The rumbling from the kitchen, as though in an endeavour to make up for lost time, became continuous. It also became louder and more hilarious. Pale and determined Mr. Hartley rose a second time and, seizing the bell-pull, rang violently. “Does anybody want to see me?” he inquired, as Rosa’s head appeared. “You? No,” was the reply.