Then he saw that his wife was still in her afternoon frock, and his face flushed with anger. “What, aren’t you dressed _yet?_... I think you might show some respect for my wishes, Clare.” “I am going to dress now,” said Clare, and she rose and went into the bedroom. “Women are the very devil,” said Herbert, unwrapping the whisky bottles. While he was busy with this his mother came in, having changed her dress. “Oh, I am glad you managed to get the whisky,” she said. “Of course nearly every blessed shop was shut,” said Herbert. “They always are when I run out of everything. It’s this Radical Government, with its beastly Acts.” Mrs. Heywood hesitated and then came across to her son and touched him on the arm. “I think you had better come into the kitchen a moment, dear, and look after Mollie.” “She hasn’t broken anything else, has she?” said Herbert anxiously. “No, dear. But she has just cut her finger rather badly. She got in a temper with the sandwiches.” Herbert raised his hands to heaven. “Why do these things always happen when Clare gives an At Home? I shall abolish these evenings altogether. They will drive me mad.” “Oh, they’re very pleasant when they once begin,” said Mrs. Heywood. “I’m glad you think so, mother. I am damned if I do. I was only saying to Clare to-night----” He stalked out of the room furiously. Mrs. Heywood stood for a few moments staring at the carpet. Her lips moved and her worn old hands plucked at her skirt. “Every time there is an At Home at this flat,” she said, “I get another white hair.” She moved toward the door and went out of the room, so that it was left empty. Outside in the street a piano-organ was playing a rag-time tune with a rattle of notes, and motor-cars were sounding their horns. In this little drawing-room in Intellectual Mansions, Battersea Park, there was silence, except for those vague sounds from without. There was no sign here of Fate’s presence, summoning a woman to her destiny. No angel stood with a flaming sword to bar the way to a woman with a wild heart. The little ormolu clock ticking on the mantel-shelf did not seem to be counting the moments of a tragic drama. It was a very commonplace little room, and the flamboyant chintz on the sofa and chairs gave it an air of cheerfulness, as though this were one of the happy homes of England. Presently the bedroom door opened slowly, and Clare Heywood stood there looking into the drawing-room and listening. She was very pale, and was dressed in her outdoor things, as Gerald Bradshaw had asked her to dress, in her hat and cloak, so that she might slip out of the flat which he had called her prison. She came further into the room, timidly, like a hare frightened by the distant baying of the hounds. She raised her hands to her bosom, and spoke in a whisper: “God forgive me!”