“Oh, rats, mother! I mean, don’t be so fanciful.” “I don’t like this sudden craving for religion, Herbert. It’s unhealthy.” “Devilish unhealthy,” said Herbert. He searched about vainly for his patent boots, which were in an obvious position. It added to his annoyance and irritability. “Why can’t she stay at home and look after me? I can’t find a single damn thing. I beg your pardon, mother.... Women’s place is in the home.... Now where on earth----” He resumed his search for the very obvious patent boots and at last discovered them. “Oh, there they are!” He glanced at the clock, and expressed the opinion that he would be late for the club if he did not “look sharp.” Then a little tragedy happened, and he gave a grunt of dismay when a bootlace broke. “Oh, my hat! Why doesn’t Clare look after my things properly?” Mrs. Heywood asked another question, ignoring the broken bootlace. “Need you go to the club to-night, Herbert?” Herbert was both astonished and annoyed at this remark. “Of course I must. It’s Friday night and the one little bit of Bohemianism I get in the week. Why not?” “Oh, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Heywood meekly. “Except that I thought Clare is feeling rather lonely.” “Lonely?” said Herbert. “She has you, hasn’t she?” “Yes, she has me.” Mrs. Heywood spoke as though that might be a doubtful consolation. “Besides, what more does she want? She has her afternoon At Homes, hasn’t she?” “Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood, still more doubtfully. “And she can always go to a matinée if she wants to, can’t she?” “Yes, dear.” “Then I have taken out a subscription to Mudie’s for her, haven’t I?” Herbert Heywood spoke as though his wife had all the blessings of life, as though he had provided her with all that a woman’s heart might desire. But Mrs. Heywood interrupted his catalogue of good things. “I think she reads too many novels,” she said. “Oh, they broaden her mind,” said Herbert. “Although, I must confess they bore _me_ to death.... Now what have I done with my cigarette-case?” He felt all over his pockets, but could not find the desired thing. “Oh, the curse of pockets!” “Some of them are very dangerous, Herbert.” “What, pockets?” “No, novels,” said Mrs. Heywood. “Look at this.” She thrust under his eyes the novel with the picture of the flaming lady. “Gee whizz!” said Herbert, laughing. “Oh, well, she’s a married woman.” “Do you see who the author is, Herbert?” Herbert look, and was astonished. “Gerald Bradshaw, by Jove! Does he write this sort of muck?” “He has been coming here rather often lately. Especially on club-nights, Herbert.” Herbert Heywood showed distinct signs of annoyance. “Does he, by Jove? I don’t like the fellow. He’s a particularly fine specimen of a bad hat.” “I’m afraid he’s an immoral man,” said Mrs. Heywood. Herbert shrugged his shoulders. “Well, Clare can take care of herself.”