It began very early, somewhere about seven in the morning, with a horrible incident. The rule on Sundays was that the maid knocked at half-past six on the door and gave the Archdeacon and his wife their tea. The Archdeacon lay luxuriously drinking it until exactly a quarter to seven, then he sprang out of bed, had his cold bath, performed his exercises, and shaved in his little dressing-room. At about a quarter past seven, nearly dressed, he returned into the bedroom, to find Mrs. Brandon also nearly dressed. On this particular day while he drank his tea his wife appeared to be sleeping; that did not make him bound out of bed any the less noisily-after twenty years of married life you do not worry about such things; moreover it was quite time that his wife bestirred herself. At a quarter past seven he came into the bedroom in his shirt and trousers, humming "Onward, Christian Soldiers." It was a fine spring morning, so he flung up the window and looked out into the Precinct, fresh and dewy in the morning sun, silent save for the inquisitive reiteration of an early jackdaw. Then he turned back, and, to his amazement, saw that his wife was lying, her eyes wide open, staring in front of her. "My dear!" he cried. "Aren't you well?" "I'm perfectly well," she answered him, her eyes maintaining their fixed stare. The tone in which she said these words was quite new--it was not submissive, it was not defensive, it was indifferent. She must be ill. He came close to the bed. "Do you realise the time?" he asked. "Twenty minutes past seven. I'm sure you don't want to keep me waiting." She didn't answer him. Certainly she must be ill. There was something strange about her eyes. "You _must_ be ill," he repeated. "You look ill. Why didn't you say so? Have you got a headache?" "I'm not ill. I haven't got a headache, and I'm not coming to Early Service." "You're not ill, and you're not coming..." he stammered in his amazement. "You've forgotten. There isn't late Celebration." She gave him no answer, but turned on her side, closing her eyes. He came right up to the bed, frowning down upon her. "Amy--what does this mean? You're not ill, and yet you're not coming to Celebration? Why? I insist upon an answer." She said nothing. He felt that anger, of which he had tried now for many years to beware, flooding his throat. With tremendous self-control he said quietly: "What is the matter with you, Amy? You must tell me at once." She did not open her eyes but said in a voice so low that he scarcely caught the words: "There is nothing the matter. I am not ill, and I'm not coming to Early Service." "Why?" "Because I don't wish to go." For a moment he thought that he was going to bend down and lift her bodily out of bed. His limbs felt as though they were prepared for such an action.