“Confound her impudence! As if a British subject hasn’t an inalienable right to sing in his bath! She had the cheek to say I was spoiling her temper for the rest of the day.” Mrs. Heywood laughed rather bitterly. “She looks as if she had a temper!” Herbert gave the pamphlets an angry slap with the back of his hand and let them fall on the floor. “Do you mean to say _she_ has been giving Clare these pestilential things?” “I saw her bring them here,” said Mrs. Hey-wood. “Well, they shan’t stay here.” Herbert went to the fireplace and took up the tongs. Then he picked up the pamphlets as though they might bite and tossed them into the flames. “Beastly things! Burn, won’t you?” He gave them a savage poke, deeper into the fire, and watched them smolder and then break into flame. “Pestilential nonsense!... That’s a good deed done, anyhow!” Mrs. Heywood was rather scared. “I am afraid Clare will be very angry.” “Angry! I shall give her a piece of my mind. She had no right to conceal these things.” He spoke with dignity. “It isn’t honorable.” “No,” said Mrs. Heywood, “but all the same, dear, I wish you hadn’t burned the books.” “I should like to burn the authors of ‘em,” said Herbert fiercely. “However, they’ll roast sooner or later, that’s a comfort.” “You had better be careful, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood rather nervously. “Clare is in a rather dangerous frame of mind just now.” “Clare will have to learn obedience to her husband’s wishes,” said Herbert. “I thought she had learned by this time. She’s been very quiet lately.” “Too quiet, Herbert. It’s when we women are very quiet that we are most dangerous.” Herbert was beginning to feel alarmed. He did not like all these hints, all these vague and mysterious suggestions. “Good Lord, mother, you give me the creeps. Why don’t you speak plainly?” Mrs. Heywood was listening. She seemed to hear some sounds in the hall. Suddenly she retreated to her arm-chair and made a pretence of searching for her knitting. “Hush!” she said. “Here she comes.” As she spoke the words, the door opened slowly and Clare came in. She was a tall, elegant woman of about thirty, with a quiet manner and melancholy eyes in which there was a great wistfulness. She spoke rather wearily-- “Not gone yet, Herbert? You’ll be late for the club.” Herbert looked at his wife curiously, as though trying to discover some of those symptoms to which his mother had alluded. “I’m afraid that’s your fault,” he said. “My fault?” “Surely you ought to stay at home sometimes and help me to get off decently,” said Herbert in an aggrieved way. “You know perfectly well my tie always goes wrong.” Clare sighed; and then smiled rather miserably. “Why can’t men learn to do their own ties? We’re living in the twentieth century, aren’t we?” She took off her hat, and sat down with it in her lap. “Oh, how my head aches to-night.” “Where have you been?” asked Herbert “Yes, dear, where _have_ you been?” asked Mrs. Heywood.