“I wonder,” said Mrs. Heywood, as though she were not at all sure. “My dear, I think you ought to keep an eye on your wife just now.” Herbert Heywood took his eye-glass out of a fob pocket and fumbled with it. “Keep an eye on her, mother?” “She is very queer,” said Mrs. Heywood. “I can’t do anything to please her.” “Well, there’s nothing strange in that,” said Herbert. Then he added hastily-- “I mean it’s no new symptom.” Mrs. Heywood stared at her son in a peculiar, significant way. “She looks as if something is going to--happen.” Herbert was really startled. “Happen? How? When?” “I can’t exactly explain. She appears to be waiting for something--or some one.” Herbert was completely mystified. “I didn’t keep her waiting this evening, did I?” “I don’t mean you, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood. “No?--Who, then?” asked Herbert. Mrs. Heywood replied somewhat enigmatically. She gave a deep sigh and said-- “We women are queer things!” “Queer isn’t the word,” said Herbert. He stared at the carpet in a gloomy, thoughtful way, as though the pattern were perplexing him. “Perhaps you’re right about the novels. They’ve been giving her notions, or something.” Mrs. Heywood crossed the room hurriedly and went over to a drawer in a cabinet, from which she pulled out a number of pamphlets. “Herbert,” she said solemnly, “she doesn’t read only novels. Look here. Look at all these little books. She simply devours them, Herbert, and then hides them.” “Naturally, after she has devoured them,” said Herbert irritably. “But what the deuce are they?” He turned them over one by one, reading out the titles, raising his eyebrows, and then whistling with surprise, and finally looking quite panic-stricken. “_Women’s Work and Wages_. Oh, Lord! John Stuart Mill on _The Subjection of Women. The Ethics of Ibsen_. Great Scott! _The Principles of Eugenics_.... My hat!” “Quite so, Herbert,” said Mrs. Heywood, with a kind of grim satisfaction in his consternation. “I don’t mind her reading improper novels,” said Herbert, “but I draw the line at this sort of stuff.” “It’s most dangerous.” “It’s rank poison.” “That’s what I think,” said Mrs. Heywood. “Where did she get hold of them?” asked Herbert. Mrs. Heywood looked at her son as though she had another startling announcement. “From that woman, Miss Vernon, the artist girl who lives in the flat above.” “What, that girl who throws orange-peel over the balcony?” “Yes, the girl who is always whistling for taxis,” said Mrs. Heywood. “What, you mean the one who complained about my singing in the bath?” “Yes, I shall never forgive her for that.” “Said she didn’t mind if I sang in tune.” “Yes, the one who sells a Suffragette paper outside Victoria Station.” “It’s the sort of thing she would do,” said Herbert, with great sarcasm. “I never liked her, my dear,” said Mrs. Heywood.