“I’ve been round to church for a few minutes,” said Clare. “What on earth for?” asked Herbert impatiently. “What does one go to church for?” “God knows!” said Herbert bitterly. “Precisely. Have you any objection?” “Yes, I have.” Herbert spoke with some severity, as though he had many objections. “I don’t object to you going to your club,” said Clare. “Oh, that’s different.” “In what way?” asked Clare. “In every way. I am a man, and you’re a woman.” Clare Heywood thought this answer out. She seemed to find something in the argument. “Yes,” she said, “it does make a lot of difference.” “I object strongly to this religious craze of yours,” said Herbert, trying to be calm and reasonable. “It’s unnatural. It’s--it’s devilish absurd.” “It may keep me from--from doing other things,” said Clare. She spoke as though the words had some tragic significance. “Why can’t you stay at home and read a decent novel?” “It is so difficult to find a _decent_ novel. And I am sick of them all.” “Well, play the piano, then,” said Herbert. “I am tired of playing the piano, especially when there is no one to listen.” “There’s mother,” said Herbert. “Mother has no ear for music.” Mrs. Heywood was annoyed at this remark. It seemed to her unjust. “How can you say so, Clare? You know I love Mozart.” “I haven’t played Mozart for years,” said Clare, laughing a little. “You are thinking of Mendelssohn.” “Well, it’s all the same,” said Mrs. Heywood. “Yes, I suppose so,” said Clare very wearily. She drooped her head and shut her eyes until suddenly she seemed to smell something. “Is there anything burning?” “Burning?” said Herbert nervously. “There is a queer smell in the flat,” said Clare. Herbert stood with his back to the fire, and sniffed strenuously. “I can’t smell anything.” “It’s your fancy, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood. “It’s the smell of burned paper,” said Clare quite positively. “Do you think so?” said her mother-in-law. “Burned paper?” said Herbert. Clare became suspicious. She leaned forward in her chair and stared into the fireplace. “What are all those ashes in the grate?” she said. “Oh, yes,” said Herbert, as though he had suddenly remembered. “Of course I _have_ been burning some papers.” “What papers?” asked Clare. “Oh, old things,” said Herbert rather hurriedly. “Well, I had better be off. Goodnight, mother.” He kissed her affectionately and said: “Don’t stay up late. I have taken the key, Clare.” “I hope it will fit the lock when you come back,” said Clare. She spoke the words very quietly, but for some reason they raised her husband’s ire. “For heaven’s sake don’t try to be funny, Clare.” “I wasn’t trying,” said Clare very calmly. For a moment Herbert hesitated. Then he came back to his wife and kissed her. “I think we are both a bit irritable to-night, aren’t we?” “Are we?” said Clare. “Nerves,” said Herbert, “the curse of the age. Well, good-night.”