In due course, the morning came—indeed, it was not far off—and with it wiser counsels. Mary woke early and talked about the baby, which was teething; indeed, so soon as the nurse was up she sent for it that the three of them might hold a consultation over a swollen gum. Also she discussed the date of their departure to Beaulieu, for again Christmas was near at hand; adding, however, somewhat to Morris’s relief, that unless the baby’s teeth went on better she really did not think that they could go, as it would be most unwise to take her out of the care of Dr. Charters and trust her to the tender mercies of foreign leeches. Morris agreed that it might be risky, and mentioned that in a letter which he had received from the concierge at Beaulieu a few days before, that functionary said that the place was overrun with measles and scarlatina. “Morris!” ejaculated Mary, sitting bolt upright in bed, “and you never told me! What is more, had it not been for baby’s teeth, which brought it to your mind, I believe you never would have told me, and I might have taken those unprotected little angels and—Oh! goodness, I can’t bear to think of it.” Morris muttered some apologies, whereon Mary, looking at him suspiciously through her falling hair, asked: “Why did you forget to show me the letter? Did you suppress it because you wanted to go to Beaulieu?” “No,” answered Morris with energy; “I hate Beaulieu. I forgot, that is all; because I have so much to think about, I suppose.” “So much? I thought that things were arranged now so that you had nothing at all to think about except how to spend your money and be happy with me, and adore the dear angels—Yes, I think that perhaps the nurse had better take her away. Touch the bell, will you? There, she’s gone. Keep her well wrapped up, and mind the draught, nurse. “No, don’t get up yet, Morris; I want to talk to you. You have been very gloomy of late, just like you used to be before you married, mooning about and staring at nothing. And what on earth do you do sitting up to all hours of the morning in that ghosty old chapel, where I wouldn’t be alone at twelve o’clock for a hundred pounds?” “I read,” said Morris. “Read? Read what? Novels?” “Sometimes,” answered Morris. “Oh, how can you tell such fibs? Why, that last book by Lady What’s-her-name which came in the Mudie box—the one they say is so improper—has been lying on your table for over two months, and you can’t tell me yet what it was the heroine did wrong. Morris, you are not inventing anything more, are you?” Here was an inspiration. “I admit that I am thinking of a little thing,” he said with diffidence, as though he were a budding poet with a sonnet on his mind. “A little thing? What little thing?” “Well, a new kind of aerophone designed to work uninfluenced by its twin.” “Well, and why shouldn’t it? Everything can’t have a twin—only I suppose there would be nothing to hear.”