“Yes, dear, why didn’t you go to the club?” asked Mrs. Heywood. Herbert looked rather embarrassed. “Oh, I don’t know. I felt a bit off. Besides----” “What, dear?” asked his mother. “I thought Clare was feeling a bit lonely to-night. Perhaps I was mistaken.” “I am often lonely,” said Clare. “Even when you are at home.” “Aren’t you _glad_ I have come back?” asked Herbert. “Why do you ask me?” “I should be glad if you were glad.” Clare’s husband became slightly sentimental as he looked at her. “I have been thinking it _is_ rather rotten to go _off_ to the club and leave you here alone,” he said. Mrs. Heywood was delighted with these words. “Oh, you dear boy! How unselfish of you!” “I try to be,” said Herbert. “I am sure you are the very soul of unselfishness, Herbert, dear,” said the fond mother. “Thanks, mother.” He looked rather anxiously at Clare, and said-- “Don’t you think we might have a pleasant evening for once?” “Oh, that would be delightful!” said Mrs. Heywood. “Eh, Clare?” “How do you mean?” said Clare. “Like we used to in the old days? Some music, and that sort of thing.” “I am sure that will be _very_ nice,” said Mrs. Heywood. “Eh, Clare?” said Herbert. “If you like,” said Clare. “Wait till I have got my boots off.” He spoke in a rather honeyed voice to his wife. “Do you happen to know where my slippers are, darling?” “I haven’t the least idea,” said Clare. Herbert seemed nettled at this answer. “In the old days you used to warm them for me,” he said. “Did I?” said Clare. “I have forgotten. It was a long time ago.” “Eight years.” At these words Clare looked over to her husband in a peculiar way. “Yes,” she said. “It is our eighth year.” “Here are your slippers, dear,” said Mrs. Hey wood. “Oh, thanks, mother. _You_ don’t forget.” There was silence while he took off his boots. Clare sat with her hands in her lap, staring at the carpet. Once or twice her mother-in-law glanced at her anxiously. “Won’t you play something, Clare?” said the old lady, after a little while. “If you like,” said Clare. Herbert resumed his cheerful note. “Yes, let’s have a jolly evening. Perhaps I will sing a song presently.” “Oh, do, dear!” said Mrs. Heywood. “Gad, it’s a long time since I sang ‘John Peel’!” Clare looked rather anxious and perturbed. “The walls of this flat are rather thin,” she said. “The neighbors might not like it.” “Oh, confound the neighbors!” said Herbert. “I will do some knitting while you two dears play and sing,” said the old lady. She fetched her knitting from a black silk bag on one of the little tables, and took a chair near the fireplace. Clare Heywood went to the music-stool and turned over some music listlessly. She did not seem to find anything which appealed to her. Her husband settled himself down in an arm-chair and loaded his pipe. “Play something bright, Clare,” he said. “All my music sounds melancholy when I play it,” said Clare. “What, rag-time?”