Though the day was so deliciously warm, it felt rather chilly in the evening, or so Philip thought, and a fire was lit in the drawing-room. Phœbe had a slight headache, and thus it was quite natural that she should go to bed early, leaving her husband sitting up. As soon as he had heard the door of her bedroom close, he went softly to the dining-room, and again mounting the library-steps, took down the razor-blade from the _cache_ which this morning had seemed so secure, and went back with it into the drawing-room. It would have been terrible if Jane, the housemaid, who always sang at her work, should to-morrow have suddenly interrupted her warblings with a wild scream, as she dusted the top of the bookcase. Perhaps the razor-blade would have embedded itself in her hand; perhaps, even more tragically, her flapping duster would have flicked it into her smiling and songful face, and have buried it deep in her eye or her open mouth. But now this gruesome domestic tragedy had been averted by Philip’s ingenious perception of the chilliness of the evening, and with a sigh of relief he dropped the fatal blade into the core of the fire. He went softly up to bed, feeling very tired after this emotional day. Now that his anxiety was allayed he would have liked to tell Phœbe how silly he had been, for never before had he had a secret from her. But then one of Phœbe’s most sacred idols in life was her husband’s stern masculine common sense that (like Algernon’s) was never the prey of foolish fears and unfounded tremors. He hated the idea of smashing up this cherished image of Phœbe’s, and determined to keep his unaccountable failing to himself. Phœbe should never know. Besides, it would vex her very much to be told that her present to him had occasioned him such uneasiness. He fell asleep at once, and woke in the grey dawn of the morning to the sound, as it were, of clashing cymbals of terror in his brain.... The housemaid would clear up the fireplace in the drawing-room, and there among the ashes, like a snake in the grass, would be the keen tooth of the razor-blade. Perhaps already Philip was too late, and before he could get down a cry of pain would ring through the silent house, betokening that Jane’s life-blood was already spreading over the new Kidderminster carpet, and he sprang from his bed and with bare feet went hurriedly down to the drawing-room. Thank God he was in time, and a minute afterwards he was on his way up to bed again with the razor-blade still dusty with ashes, but as sharp as ever, in an envelope taken from Phœbe’s table. Temporarily, he put it between his mattresses, and, since it was still only half-past four, climbed back into bed, and vainly attempted to compose himself to sleep. * * * * *