“Herbert objects to my going into the kitchen,” said Clare. “Don’t you ever break a few plates?” Clare smiled at her queer question. “No, why should I?” “There’s nothing like breaking things to relieve one’s pent-up emotions,” said Miss Vernon, with an air of profound knowledge. “The only thing I have broken lately is something--here,” said Clare, putting her hand to her heart. Miss Vernon was scornful. “Oh, rubbish! The heart is unbreakable, my dear. Now, heads are much easier to crack.” “I think mine is getting cracked, too,” said Clare. She put her hands to her head, as though it were grievously cracked. Madge Vernon stared at her frankly and thoughtfully. “Look here,” she said, after a little silence, “I tell you what _you_ want. It’s a baby. Why don’t you have one?” “Herbert can’t afford it,” said Clare. Madge Vernon raised her hands. “Stuff and nonsense!” she said. “Besides,” said Clare in a matter-of-fact way, “they don’t make flats big enough for babies in Intellectual Mansions.” Madge Vernon looked round the room, and frowned angrily. “No, that’s true. There’s no place to keep a perambulator. Oh, these jerry builders! Immoral devils!” There was a silence between the two women. Both of them seemed deep in thought. Then presently Clare said: “I feel as if something were going to happen; as if something must happen or break.” “About time, my dear,” said Madge. “How long have you been married?” “Eight years,” said Clare, in a casual way. Madge Vernon whistled with a long-drawn note of ominous meaning. “The Eighth Year, eh?” “Yes, it’s our eighth year of marriage.” “That’s bad,” said Madge. “The Eighth Year! You will have to be very careful, Clare.” Clare was startled. “What do you mean?” she asked. “Haven’t you heard?” said Miss Vernon. “Heard what?” “I thought everybody knew.” “Knew what?” asked Clare anxiously. Madge Vernon looked at her in a pitying way. “It’s in the evidence on the Royal Commission on Divorce.” “What is?” “About the Eighth Year.” “What about it?” asked Clare. She was beginning to feel annoyed. What was Madge hiding from her? “Why,” said Madge, “about it being the fatal year in marriage.” “The fatal year?” The girl leaned forward in her chair and said in a solemn way: “There are more divorces begun in the Eighth Year than in any other period.” Clare Heywood was scared. “Good gracious!” she said, in a kind of whisper. “It’s a psychological fact,” said Madge. “I work it out in this way. In the first and second years a wife is absorbed in the experiment of marriage and in the sentimental phase of love. In the third and fourth years she begins to study her husband and to find him out. In the fifth and sixth years, having found him out completely, she makes a working compromise with life and tries to make the best of it. In the seventh and eighth years she begins to find out herself, and then----” “And then?” asked Clare, very anxiously. Clare Heywood was profoundly disturbed.