He went up to the tray and poured himself out a tall glass of brandy and soda. “The weather is turning queer--black as pitch. I hope the Swordsleys won’t walk into the lake--involuntary immersion, eh? He’d come out a Baptist, I suppose. What’d the Bishop do in such a case? There’s a problem for a lawyer, my boy!” He clapped his hand on Wrayford’s thin shoulder and then walked over to his wife, who was gathering up her embroidery silks and dropping them into her work-bag. Stilling took her by the arms and swung her playfully about so that she faced the lamplight. “What’s the matter with you tonight?” “The matter?” she echoed, colouring a little, and standing very straight in her desire not to appear to shrink from his touch. “You never opened your lips. Left me the whole job of entertaining those blessed people. Didn’t she, Austin?” Wrayford laughed and lit a cigarette. “There! You see even Austin noticed it. What’s the matter, I say? Aren’t they good enough for you? I don’t say they’re particularly exciting; but, hang it! I like to ask them here--I like to give people pleasure.” “I didn’t mean to be dull,” said Isabel. “Well, you must learn to make an effort. Don’t treat people as if they weren’t in the room just because they don’t happen to amuse you. Do you know what they’ll think? They’ll think it’s because you’ve got a bigger house and more money than they have. Shall I tell you something? My mother said she’d noticed the same thing in you lately. She said she sometimes felt you looked down on her for living in a small house. Oh, she was half joking, of course; but you see you do give people that impression. I can’t understand treating any one in that way. The more I have myself, the more I want to make other people happy.” Isabel gently freed herself and laid the work-bag on her embroidery-frame. “I have a headache; perhaps that made me stupid. I’m going to bed.” She turned toward Wrayford and held out her hand. “Good night.” “Good night,” he answered, opening the door for her. When he turned back into the room, his host was pouring himself a third glass of brandy and soda. “Here, have a nip, Austin? Gad, I need it badly, after the shaking up you gave me this afternoon.” Stilling laughed and carried his glass to the hearth, where he took up his usual commanding position. “Why the deuce don’t you drink something? You look as glum as Isabel. One would think you were the chap that had been hit by this business.” Wrayford threw himself into the chair from which Mrs. Stilling had lately risen. It was the one she usually sat in, and to his fancy a faint scent of her clung to it. He leaned back and looked up at Stilling. “Want a cigar?” the latter continued. “Shall we go into the den and smoke?” Wrayford hesitated. “If there’s anything more you want to ask me about--”